THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE    LION'S   CUB 


WITH    OTHER    VERSE 


BT 

RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD 


LONDON 
ELKIN    MATHEWS,   19,  VIGO   STREET 


Printed   by 

Trow's  Printing  and  Bookbinding  Company, 
New  York,    U.   S.  A. 


PS 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

LIBER  AMORIS,     .       .       .....       .  i 

THROUGH  DARKNESS,    .......  n 

THE  GRAVES,       .       .  .       .       .       .       .12 

THE  DOOR,      ........  13 

RICH  AND  POOR, 13 

SUCCOR,    ..       ..       .       .<»       .       .  14 

THE  UNCREATED,        .        .        .       .        .       .       .  15 

THE  CHAPTER  OF  THE  CROWN 16 

THE  PILGRIMAGE 17 

THE  WORDS  OF  SADI,   ......  17 

THE  BOWL,  . 18 

THE  MOTHERLESS  CHILD, 19 

SPEECH  AND  SILBNCE 20 

THE  BLACK  CAMEL,      ...'...  20 
ROSE  AND  VINE,         .                .        .       .       .        .21 

HE  KNOWS 22 

iii 


960640 


Contents. 

PAGE 

THE  END  OF  SONG,    . 

THE  BOOKS  OF  THE  SIBYLS,        .        .  24 

THE  ROSARY 

THE  NAME 25 

THE  END •  2f> 

THE  MORALS  OF  MARCUS  AURELIUS, 

THE  POTTER, 

THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES,        .  34 

THE  BRAHMAN'S  LESSON,                                        •  37 

MASTER  ECKART'S  SERMON,        .  41 

THE  CUP ...  44 

THE  WALK  AT  NIGHT,  44 
THE  ANT,  ...  -45 

LOVERS'  HEARTS 46 

CLEON  AND  ^EGLE 47 

THE  CAPTIVES  OF  CHARON,  47 
A  LAMENT,  .  -49 
THE  PEARL,  . 

No  JEWELS, Si 

CARISSIMA 51 

AT  DRACHENFELS, 

AT  MERRY  MOUNT,       .  S3 

BIRDS  OF  A  FEATHER 54 

iv 


Contents. 

PACE 
GOOD-NIGHT 55 

WHENCE  AND  WHITHER? 55 

THE  ARCHETYPAL  MAN 58 

FOUR  GAZELES  OF  HAFIZ, 60 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  EAST 64 

ROMANCES  FROM  GUSTAVO  BECQUER,    .        .  .66 

OUT-OF-DOORS,       .......  71 

UNCERTAIN  SOUNDS,          72 

Music 72 

A  SAILOR  SONG,         .               .       .       .       .  .73 

IMPLORA  PACEM,     .......  74 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  SONG,       .        .       -.       .       .  .75 

To  JULIA,        ........  76 

IN  THE  MEADOWS,      .        .       .       .        .       .  .77 

IN  THE  SNOW,        .......  78 

How  AND  WHY,         .       .       .       .       .       .  .79 

MORS  ET  VITA,       .......  80 

THOUGHT,     ..       .  •    .       .       ..       .  .81 

THE  SINGER,   . .  81 

A  FANTASY,          .       .       »        .       .       .       .  .82 

Vox  CLAMANTIS,    .......  83 

CHILDREN'S  SONGS,     .       .        »       .       .       .  .84 

FATHER  AND  CHILD,  88 


Contents. 

PAGE 

OUR  FATHERS, 91 

THOUGHTS  FOR  THANKSGIVING,          •        •        •         93 

DECORATION  DAY, 96 

HAIR  OF  WASHINGTON, 99 

To  MARY  BRADLEY,    . 100 

To  WILLIAM  JAMES  LINTON,  101 

AT  A  DINNER  OF  ARTISTS, 102 

AT  WASHINGTON 102 

MORITURUM  SALUTAMUS, 103 

ON  NEARING  THE  SECONB  CATARACT,      .        .        104 
THE  CROSSING  OF  THE  WAYS,         ....  104 

AT  CONCORD, 106 

AT  ROSLYN, 112 

THE  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 115 

THE  LEGEND  OF  FREY  BERNARDO,         .        .        .  122 

THE  BRAHMAN'S  SON 132 

THE  LION'S  CUB,        .  145 


LIBER   AMORIS. 
I. 

UPON  the  Delphic  leaves 
Of  this  prophetic  book 
Whoever  will  may  look ; 
No  eye  but  mine  perceives 
What  gladdens  there,  or  grieves, 
Nor  why  the  peace  of  years 
Is  wrecked  with  hopes  and  fears. 
Many  will  read  the  words, 
But  none  will  understand 
The  meaning,  though  the  birds 
Fly  up  and  down  the  land, 
And,  wooing,  learn  and  teach 
That  universal  speech. 
You  know  it  not,  and  I 
Only  so  much  thereof 
As  signifies  I  love — 
But  not  the  reason  why. 
I 


Liber  Amor  is. 


II. 

If  you  see  a  flower  to-day, 
And  the  scent  of  it  is  sweet, 
You  will  know  what  it  is — 
No  flower,  but  a  kiss, 
For  I  blow  one  your  way, 
And  it  grows  at  your  feet. 

If  you  hear  a  bird  to-day, 
And  its  melody  is  dear, 

You  will  hearken  to  it  long — 
No  bird,  but  a  song, 
For  I  wing  one  your  way, 
And  it  sings  in  your  ear. 

If  you  have  my  song  to-day, 
And  you  feel  its  gentle  art, 
And  if  you  have  my  kiss, 
And  know  how  pure  it  is  — 
Be  careful  of  them,  pray, 

For  they  are  my  soul,  and  heart. 

III. 

I  have  rifled  land  and  sea 
For  similitudes  of  thee. 
First  thou  wert  a  Lily,  such 
2 


Liber  Amons. 

As  no  satyr  dares  to  touch  ; 
Sweetest,  purest  of  all  those 
That  on  Dian's  couch  their  snows 
Shed,  not  knowing  she  is  gone 
After  cold  Endymion. 
Then  I  went  to  Neptune's  realm, 
Which  the  waters  overwhelm, 
Through  a  light  which  is  not  light, 
Sinking  to  the  under-night : 
There,  where  Amphitrite's  girls 
Slumber,  pillowed  on  their  curls, 
There  I  sought  thee,  Pearl  of  pearls ! 

Hast  thou  rifled  land  and  sea 
For  similitudes  of  me  ? 
No  :  for  what  am  I  to  thee  ? 
Lilies  from  the  first  have  grown 
For  no  service  but  their  own. 
Votaries  to  themselves  they  live, 
Taking  all  the  heavens  give, 
Homage  of  the  wind  and  dew, 
Sighs  and  tears  of  lovers,  too. 
Pearls  are  souls  of  lilies  flown, 
Saved  because  they  once  were  dear, 
By  the  baptism  of  Love's  tear 
That  turns  itself  and  them  to  stone. 

Since  thou  hast  my  sighs  and  tears, 
And  the  fulness  of  my  years, 

3 


Liber  Amoris. 

No  need  to  rifle  land  and  sea 
For  poor  similitudes  of  me  ! 

IV. 

I  sent  my  darling  letters, 

That  came  of  late  to  me, 
Sweet  messages  from  song-birds 

Across  the  summer  sea. 

But,  if  the  missives  reached  her, 

She  answered  not  a  word; 
My  couriers  could  not  meet  her, 

This  shy  and  silent  bird. 

When  four  dull  days  were  ended, 
Four  nights  of  strange  unrest, 

There  came  a  little  whisper 
From  her  secluded  nest. 

She  sent  me  back  my  letters, 
Which  she  had  kept  too  long, 

And  crumpled  in  their  foldings 
Behold  a  missing  song. 

I  lost  it  in  the  letters, 

Of  which  it  seemed  a  part ; 

But  I  lost  much  more  than  that  there- 
I  lost  with  that  my  heart ! 
4 


Liber  Amoris. 


V. 


What  does  she  think  of  me  ?  I  ask  myself, 

Who  am  not  ignorant  what  I  think  of  her. 

She  thinks  I  am  too  old,  and  she  too  young 

(She  Spring,  I  Autumn),  or  thinks  not  at  all. 

It  may  be,  must  be,  for  she  sends  no  word 

That  words  of  mine  have  reached  her.    Be  it  so. 

If  of  herself  she  does  not  love  me — well. 

She  need  not  fear  that  I  shall  sue  to  her. 

I  am  too  old  for  that,  and  she  too  young ; 

But  youth  like  hers  (dear   youth !)  and  age  like 

mine — 

Did  not  old  Goethe  love  the  young  Bettina, 
And  did  not  young  Bettina  love  old  Goethe  ? 

VI. 

Why  do  I  love  you — if  I  do  ? 
Tell  me  that,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
It  is  not  that  you  are  more  fair 
Than  other  ladies  whom  I  know  ; 
For  the  summer  of  your  hair, 
Or  the  lights  that  come  and  go 
In  your  radiant,  startled  eyes, 
Apprehensive  of  surprise  ; 
Nothing  in  your  bright,  young  face, 
Which  is  comely,  I  suppose  ; 

5 


Liber  Amoris. 

No  illusive  charm,  or  grace  ; 
What  it  is,  Heaven  only  knows. 
I  might  not  love  you  if  I  knew, 
For  what  I  love  might  not  be  you  ! 

VII. 

When  woman  loves,  and  will  not  show  it, 

\Vhat  can  her  lover  do  ? 
I  asked  a  scholar,  and  a  poet, 
But  neither  wise  fool  seemed  to  know  it ; 

So,  lady,  I  ask  you. 

Were  you  in  love — let  me  suppose  it — 
What  should  your  lover  do  ? 

You  know  you  love  him,  and  he  knows  it ; 

Oh,  why  not,  then,  to  him  disclose  it, 
As  he  his  love  to  you? 

VIII. 

Thrice  have  I  spoken,  and  from  you  no  sign 
That  my  poor  words  have  reached  you.    They  we 

poor, 

Or  you  would  not  have  shut  your  spirit's  door, 
But  would  have  opened  it  to  words  of  mine. 
What  is  there  in  me,  tell  me,  and  my  line, 
Yours,  also,  who  are  poet,  that  no  more 
You  greet  us  kindly  as  you  did  before  ? 
Because  that  we  are  human,  you  divine  ? 
6 


Liber  Amor  is. 

Am  I  too  old  to  love  you  ?     Or  do  you 
Love  some  one  younger  better  ?     Be  it  so  : 
Whatever  happens  I  am  still  your  friend. 
You  may  have  hurt  me  somewhat,  let  it  go ; 
I  shall  live  down  my  weakness,  poets  do, 
And  have,  like  stronger  men,  a  peaceful  end. 

IX. 

This  man  loves  me.     If  you  have  ever  said 
These  woman's  words,  it  was  to  yourself  alone  ; 
But  you  have  never  said  them,  never  known 
The  difference  between  my  heart  and  head. 
The  songs  that  I  have  written  you  have  read 
As  shallow  fancies,  which  your  way  have  flown  ; 
You  have  not  felt  there  the  deep  undertone 
Where  what  still  lives  in  me  laments  its  dead. 
But  you  will  feel  it  when  the  busy  hand 
That  pens  this  fervent  page  hath  lost  its  skill ; 
And  when  the  heart  that  urges  it  is  still 
And  cold  as  yours,  then  you  will  understand 
My  pure  and  strong  devotion,  and  will  be 
Constrained  to  say,  too  late  :  This  man  loved  me. 

X. 

Needless  was  your  command 

To  burn  your  letters  : 
Nor  woman's  heart,  nor  hand, 

Hold  I  in  fetters. 


Liber  Amor  is. 

Be  your  weak  vows  forgot, 
My  vow  is  stronger ; 

No  :  since  you  trust  me  not, 
You  love  no  longer. 

Go,  lightly,  as  ye  came, 
Perish,  each  letter  ; 

Why  not,  since  in  the  flame 
I  read  them  better  ? 


XL 

If  we  had  never  met,  dear, 
Would  we  have  loved  as  now  ? 

Or  lived  in  vain  regret,  dear, 
Apart,  we  know  not  how  ? 

I  cannot  understand,  dear, 

The  riddle  of  my  life  ; 
Why  he  has  now  your  hand,  dear, 

And  you  are  not  my  wife. 

If  hearts  are  wed  by  fate,  dear, 
And  ordered  things  befall, 

Why  did  we  meet  too  late,  dear  ? 
Why  did  we  meet  at  all  ? 


Liber  Amoris. 


XII. 

The  immortal  part  of  me, 
If  any  such  there  be, 
Doth  still  in  me  remain  ; 
I  know  it  by  my  pain, 

And  by  my  love  for  thee  : 

Only  for  this  I  would  be  dust, 
As  soon,  proud  one,  I  must. 
Soften,  O  Love,  that  heart  of  hers, 
So  hard  to  all  her  worshippers, 
So  doubly  hard  to  me. 

See,  where  thy  lover  stands, 
And  stretches  forth  his  hands ; 
His  supplications  hear, 
Dying  because  thou  art  too  dear. 

Come  near, 
And,  giving  nothing  else,  O,  give  him  now  a  tear. 


XIII. 

In  the  stillness  of  night, 
In  the  chill  moonlight, 
What  is  it  that  I  hear, 
Coming  near,  near,  near  ? 

9 


Liber  Amoris. 

I  peer  in  the  darkness,  but  nothing  I  see, 
Though  a  shadow  is  falling, 
And  voices  are  calling, 
Half  pain,  half  delight : 
Art  thou  sighing  for  me  ? 
Am  I  dying  for  thee  ? 
Alone,  all  alone  in  the  night ! 

Ah,  no,  no,  no, 

For  the  voices  go, 

And  a  burst  of  music  comes, 

The  trumpet  blows  a  blast, 

And  the  cymbals  follow  fast, 

With  the  rattle  and  the  roll  of  the 

drums. 

The  night  is  past ;  the  morn  is  here  at  last, 
And  a  ship  is  sailing  in,  with  my  colors  at  her 
mast. 

My  lady  at  the  prow, 
Like  a  Queen  upon  her  throne, 
Waves  her  hand  to  me  now, 
And  my  sorrow  is  flown. 
It  was  she  who  was  sighing 
Till  the  land  came  in  sight, 
For  she  feared  I  was  dying 
In  the  watches  of  the  night, 
Alone,  all  alone  in  the  night ! 


10 


THROUGH  DARKNESS. 

ONE  night  the  Angel  Gabriel, 

Seated  in  Paradise  apart, 
Heard  the  low,  loving  Voice  of  God 

In  answer  to  a  human  heart. 

"  Eminent  must  this  servant  be, 
Who  to  the  Most  High  is  so  nigh ; 

Whose  spirit,  dead  to  lust  below, 
Already  is  with  Him  on  high." 

He  hastened  over  land  and  sea 

To  find  this  man — he  went  like  light ; 

But  found  him  not,  in  earth  or  Heaven, 
Through  all  the  watches  of  the  night. 

"  O  Lord,  direct  me  to  this  man, 
That  is  so  near  and  dear  to  Thee." 

"  The  man  thou  speakest  of,  Gabriel, 
Thou  shall  in  yon  pagoda  see." 

Straightway  to  the  pagoda  sped 

The  Instructed  One.  and,  looking  there, 
Beheld  before  an  idol  grim 

A  solitary  man  in  prayer. 
ii 


TJ)e  Graves. 


"  Canst  thou  regard  this  man,  O  Lord, 
Who  to  an  idol  prays,  not  Thee  ?  " 

"  I  have  forgot  his  ignorance, 
Since  he  through  darkness  hath  found  Me." 


THE    GRAVES. 

THE  Prophet  at  Medina 

Passed  by  a  burial  place, 
And  toward  the  graves  about  him 

He  turned  his  gracious  face. 

With  mounds  the  ground  was  swollen, 
Like  ocean  with  its  waves  ; 

"  Peace  be  to  you  !  "  his  prayer  was, 
"  O  people  of  the  graves  ! 

May  the  Most  High  forgive  you  ! 

May  He  forgive  us,  too  ; 
You  have  gone  on  before  us, 

And  we  are  following  you." 


Rich  and  Poor. 
THE   DOOR. 

(Jelaluddin.) 

ONE  knocked  at  the  Beloved's  door. 
' '  Who  is  there  ?  "     The  loud  reply 

To  the  Voice  within  was,  "  I." 
"  Go  thy  ways  and  come  no  more, 

This  house  holds  not  Me  and  Thee  ; 

Who  himself  loves,  loves  not  Me." 
Closed  was  the  Beloved's  door. 

Back  to  the  Beloved's  door, 

After  twelve  months'  prayer  and  fast, 

In  the  desert  lone  and  vast, 
The  lover  came  and  knocked  once  more. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  the  answer  now 

Was  no  longer  "I,"  but  "  Thou." 
Opened  was  the  Heavenly  Door. 


RICH   AND   POOR. 

SEATED  beside  his  father's  tomb 
I  saw  a  rich  man's  son  one  day, 

Who  speaking  with  a  poor  man's  son 
Reproved  him,  in  his  lordly  way. 


Succor. 

"  My  father's  tomb  of  marble  is, 
Costly  and  beauteous  to  behold  ; 

And  lo,  on  alabaster  graved 
His  name  in  characters  of  gold. 

What  likeness  to  thy  father's  tomb 

Has  it,  as  high  as  that  is  low  ? 
Builded  of  brick,  with  dust  thereon, 

Not  more  than  Summer  winds  might  blow." 

"  Peace,"  said  the  poor  man's  son.     "  Before 
The  heavy  stone  that  on  him  lies 

Thy  father  shall  have  moved  a  jot, 
Mine  will  have  entered  Paradise. 

'  Hear,  rich  and  poor,'  the  Prophet  saith  : 
'  And  choose  ye  straightway  which  is  best, 

Earth,  which  rich  men  disquiet  so, 

Or  Heaven,  which  is  the  poor  man's  rest.''' 


SUCCOR. 

BENEATH  a  shady  tree,  alone, 

Far  from  his  camp,  Mohammed  slept, 

When  on  his  slumbers,  sword  in  hand, 

Darther,  a  hostile  warrior,  crept. 

"  Awake,  Mohammed  !  "  shouted  he  ; 

"  Who  is  there  that  can  succor  thee  ?  " 


The  Uncreated. 

Mohammed  answered  him  :   "  The  Lord  ;  " 
Whereat  the  chief  let  fall  the  sword. 

The  Prophet  snatched  the  sword,  and  said  : 
"  Thou  seest  that  God  hath  succored  me  : 
If  I  should  smite  thee,  Darther,  now; 
Who  is  there  that  could  succor  thee  ?  " 
"  Alas,  not  one."     "  Then  learn  of  me 
The  mercy  I  extend  to  thee. 
Take  back  thy  sword."     The  legend  ends. 
Be  sure  from  that  day  they  were  friends. 


THE   UNCREATED. 

(Arabic.) 

"  WHERE,  Allah,  shall  I  find  thee  ? " 

And  answered  all  around  : 
"  Know  that  when  thou  hast  sought  Him 

Thou  hast  already  found." 

"  How  knoweth  thou  Allah  liveth  ? " 

They  asked  a  Bedouin  ; 
"  What !     Does  this  dawn  need  torchlight 

In  order  to  be  seen  ?  " 

Ascend  the  highest  Heaven, 
Still  Allah  is  above  ; 


The  Chapter  of  tbe  Crown. 

Not  reached,  but  comprehended 
By  his  eternal  Love. 

Words  that  are  worthy  of  Him 
Have  never  yet  been  heard. 

Let  us  adore  in  silence 
The  Uncreated  Word. 


THE  CHAPTER  OF  THE  CROWN. 

WHAT  are  the  words  of  Allah 

In  the  Chapter  of  the  Crown  ? 
"  In  the  night  of  Al  Kadr 

We  sent  the  Koran  down. 
How  shalt  thou  understand  it, 

That  dost  so  little  know 
How  excellent  that  night  is, 

And  how  its  watches  go  ? 
That  holy  night  is  better 

Than  a  thousand  moons  of  years  ; 
For  then  descend  the  angels, 

And  Gabriel  appears 
By  the  command  of  Allah, 

Whose  just  decrees  they  bear 
Concerning  every  creature 

That  Death  shall  smite,  or  spare. 
16 


The  Words  of  Sadi. 

Peace  till  the  morning  rises 
In  tent,  and  tower,  and  town 

For  in  the  night  of  Al  Kadr 
We  sent  the  Koran  down." 


THE   PILGRIMAGE. 

FOOTSORE,  behind  the  caravan 

That  went  to  Mecca,  Rabia  crept, 

Until  at  the  Kaaba  they  began 

Their  prayers  to  offer ;  then  she  wept, 

And  beat  her  breast.     "What  dost  thou  seek, 

O  heart,  weak  follower  of  the  weak  ? 

Thou  hast  traversed  land  and  sea, 

And  the  burning  desert  trod, 

To  find  in  this  far  place  the  God 

That  long  ago  had  come  to  thee." 


THE  WORDS   OF  SADI. 

REFLECT  upon  the  words  that  Sadi  penned. 
Reveal  not  every  secret  to  a  friend  : 
For  how  can  you  foretell  what  is  to  be  ? 
He  may,  hereafter,  be  your  enemy. 
And  with  your  enemy  the  wisest  plan 
Is  not  to  do  him  all  the  harm  you  can  ; 

r7 


The  Boicl. 

For  it  may  happen  to  you  in  the  end 

To  make  your  present  enemy  a  friend. 

The  hand  that  can  withhold,  the  tongue  discreet, 

These  fit  the  Sheik  to  fill  the  Sultan's  seat. 


THE   BOWL. 

(Attar.) 

TRAVELLING  in  a  desert  land, 

I  saw  a  spring  at  my  feet  : 
Into  the  waters  I  dipped  my  hand — 

Was  never  water  so  sweet ! 

Passing  on  I  was  wild  to  sing, 

I  rejoiced  so  in  my  soul. 
Another  traveller  came  to  the  spring, 

And  drank  from  an  earthen  bowl. 

He  departs,  and  leaves  his  bowl  behind, 
Which  I,  returning,  straightway  find  ; 
But  the  bubbling  spring  is  sweet  no  more — 
Was  never  water  so  bitter  before. 

Then  a  Voice  through  me  like  a  shudder  ran 
"  That  Bowl  was  moulded  out  of  Man, 
Who  cannot  (as  the  Prophet  saith), 
Lose  the  bitter  flavor  of  Death  !  " 
18 


THE   MOTHERLESS   CHILD. 

(Arabic.) 

TAKE  thy  way  to  the  grave, 
Where  lies  thy  lost  and  dear  ; 

Lift  up  thy  voice  and  cry — 
Ah,  if  she  could  but  hear  ! 

Why  hast  thou  gone  to  dwell 

In  that  far  land  apart, 
Whereto  the  valiantest 

Go  with  a  quaking  heart  ? 

That  place  of  lonesome  shade 
Is  most  unmeet  for  thee  ; 

God's  love  be  with  thee  there, 
His  pity  be  with  me. 

The  little  one  thou  hast  left, 

God  pity  her — for  she 
Knows  not  what  she  has  lost ; 

And  yet  she  weeps  for  thee. 

Those  dear,  sweet  ways  of  thine 
She  misses  make  her  weep  ; 

We  hush  her  all  night  long, 

But  the  poor  child  cannot  sleep. 
r9 


The  Black  Camel, 

When  her  crying  in  the  night 
Smites  on  my  sleepless  ears, 

Straightway  mine  eyes  are  filled, 
From  the  well  of  bitter  tears. 


SPEECH   AND   SILENCE. 

WHAT'S  spoken  here  none  discloses  : 
Gone,  like  a  breath,  out  of  reach 
Are  the  free,  light  words  of  each  : 

Our  mouths  are  silent  roses 
About  our  budding  speech. 

I  am  the  bard  of  the  roses, 
You,  sweet  one,  are  the  dew, 
Slipped  out  of  heaven's  blue, 

Where  Love,  on  his  bed  reposes, 
Dreaming,  dear  heart,  of  you. 


THE  BLACK   CAMEL. 

FULL-BLOWN  are  the  royal  roses, 
And  ripe  are  the  grapes  on  the  vines  ; 

For  the  Sun  in  his  high  pavilion, 
The  Sultan  of  summer,  shines. 

20 


Rose  and  Vine. 

The  world  is  the  garden  of  Irem, 
Or  would  be,  with  one  thing  more — 

The  absence  of  Death's  black  camel, 
That  is  kneeling  at  every  door. 


ROSE  AND  VINE. 

IF  you  hearken  to  me, 

Be  it  as  one  who  knows 

There  is  life  in  the  wind  he  breathes, 

Though  he  sees  not  whence  it  blows, 

Nor  whither,  at  last,  it  goes. 

What  I  say  to-day, 

To-morrow  I  may  unsay. 

I  saw  a  thorn  last  night, 

This  morning  it  is  a  Rose. 

If  I  hearken  to  you 
It  is  in  the  same  large  way  ; 
The  words  may  be  yours,  or  mine  : 
If  the  cup  be  filled  with  wine, 
Who  cares  if  the  cup  be  clay  ? 
No  man  knows 
Where  the  Vine  grows, 
Or  whence  the  scent 
In  the  heart  of  the  Rose. 
We  know  all  we  need  to  know 
Since  they  are  ours  to-day. 
21 


HE    KNOWS. 

THE  temple  that  I  frequent  most, 

Has,  for  its  dome,  the  turquoise  sky, 

On  unseen  pillars  lifted  up. 

I  sell  my  holy  rosary 

Strung  with  His  Names,  nor  count  it  lost, 

So  that  it  gains  enough  to  buy 

The  Wine  that  fills  Creation's  Cup. 

I  turn — such  might  to  me  belongs — 
Austerest  prayers  to  sweetest  songs  ; 
I  make — such  spells  I  cast  around — 
The  whole,  wide  world  enchanted  ground. 
Wisdom  Supreme,  the  Earth  is  thine, 
The  Cup,  whereof  Thou  art  the  Wine, 
The  light,  the  shade  that  ebbs  and  flows, 
Whatever  comes,  whatever  goes, 
All  things  begin  and  end  in  Thee. 
Whence  leads  the  path  of  destiny? 
I  know  not.     But  He  knows — He  knows. 


THE   END    OF   SONG. 


I  SANG  when  I  was  young, 
Ah,  me,  how  merrily  then. 

I  captured  the  notes  of  birds, 
I  won  the  hearts  of  men. 

My  singing  days  are  done  : 
Why  should  an  old  man  sing  ? 

Why  hover  about  a  nest, 
When  the  birds  have  taken  wing  ? 

They  go,  and  come  not  back  ; 

Ft  is  a  hint,  I  see, 
That  I  have  stayed  too  long, 

And  men  are  tired  of  me." 

These  were  the  words  of  Jami,  who 
Still  sang,  as  poets  wont  to  do, 
Songs  against  singing.     Critics  say 
That  Jami  is  alive  to-day. 


23 


THE   BOOKS   OF   THE   SIBYLS. 

WHERE  are  the  books  of  the  Sibyls 
The  high  gods  sent  to  men, 

Writ  upon  leaves  of  marble 
With  what  Eternal  Pen  ? 

The  wise  Cumaean  Sibyl 

Had  not  destroyed  a  line 
Of  those  she  brought  to  Tarquin, 

The  three  that  once  were  nine, 

If  the  Powers  had  been  propitious, 
And  the  reign  of  peace  was  near  ; 

But  the  words  were  of  swords — not 

ploughshares, 
And  the  prophecy  austere. 

Gone  are  the  books  of  the  Sibyls, 
Sent  down  to  earth  in  vain  ; 

But  others  still  more  dolorous 
In  the  soul  of  Man  remain. 


24 


Tl}e  Name. 


THE   ROSARY. 

I  HOLD  not  one,  but  many  creeds  ; 
I  am  the  string,  and  they  the  beads. 
What  Buddha  felt,  and  Plato  thought, 
And  Jesus  and  Mohammed  taught, 
I  know  ;  not  what  it  is  to  Thee, 
Thou  Maker  of  the  Rosary ! 


THE  NAME. 

A  SPIRIT  was  with  me  in  sleep, 
And  in  my  fingers  placed  a  pen: 

What  was  commanded  me  I  wrote, 
His  message  to  the  sons  of  men. 

"  Before  the  beginning  was,  I  am  ; 

And  I  after  the  end  shall  be  ; 
Unseen  behind  the  loom  of  Time 

Weaving  the  web,  Eternity. 

My  feet  are  on  the  mountain-tops, 
And  in  the  hollows  of  the  sea  ; 

To  seek  Me  is  to  miss  Me  there, 
To  miss  is  to  discover  Me. 


The  End. 

The  constellations  rise  and  set 
At  their  appointed  hours  in  space, 

But  see  Me  not  ;  their  lord,  the  Sun, 
Hath  never  looked  upon  my  Face." 

But  we,  if  we  behold  Thee  not, 
Are  torches  lighted  at  Thy  flame  ; 

For  lo,  our  souls  are  letters  in 
The  Incommunicable  Name. 


THE  END. 

TELL  me,  what  does  it  mean  ? 

That  thou  hast  reached  the  end, 
Hast  gone  on  board,  the  voyage  made, 

And  come  to  shore  ?     Descend. 

If  to  another  life, 

As  wisest  men  declare, 
There  is  be  sure  no  want  of  gods — 

They  follow  even  there. 

If  haply  to  a  state 

That  knows  no  joy  nor  pain, 
Thou  wilt  no  longer  tug  the  oar 

Nor  make  the  voyage  again. 
26 


THE  MORALS  OF  MARCUS  AURELIUS 

Humanest  of  the  Roman  Race, 
As  thoughtful  as  thou  wert  benign, 
If  what  thou  wert  be  living  yet, 
It  must  be  in  a  sacred  Place. 
Accept,  then,  with  a  gracious  face, 
Great  Soul,  in  these  poor  words  of  mine, 
A  portion  of  the  mighty  debt 
I  owe  thee,  wisest  of  thy  line  : 
MARCUS  AURELIUS  ANTONINE. 


I. 


THERE  is  one  end,  and  only  one, 

For  all  the  sons  of  men  ; 
All  Life  drifts  that  way,  once  begun, 
As  rivers  to  the  ocean  run. 

Remember  this,  and  when 
Following  the  millions  gone  before, 

Thy  voyage,  or  long,  or  short,  is  made, 

Be  not  disheartened,  nor  afraid— 
For  thou  art  come  to  shore. 
If  Life  continue  there  to  be, 

And  why  not  there  as  here  ? 
Powers  will  be  there  protecting  thee, 

To  whom  good  deeds  are  dear. 

27 


Tbe  Morals  of  Marcus  Aureliits. 

But  if  Life  be  not  there,  and  then, 
Thou  art  no  worse  off  than  greater  men 
Than  is  the  sage  Hippocrates, 
Who  could  not  cure  his  own  disease  ; 
Than  Pompeius,  Caius  Caesar  are, 
Who  wrapt  the  lands  in  clouds  of  war, 
And  added  to  their  dark  renown 
By  burning  conquered  cities  down, 
And  in  whose  battles,  von  in  vain, 
The  earth  was  cumbered  with  the  slain 
Of  cavalry  and  infantry  ; 
They  like  the  meanest  had  to  die. 
Accept  the  end,  then,  since  thou  must, 
And  if  thou  nothing  art  but  dust, 
'  Tis  something  to  lay  down  the  oar, 
And  feel  thou  shall  not  labor  more. 


II. 


Who  has  a  vehement  desire 

For  fame  when  dead,  considers  not 

That  all  who  may  remember  him 
Will  die,  like  him,  and  be  forgot  ; 

And  also  they  who  follow  them, 
Till  all  remembrances  of  fame 
Like  torches  are,  that  once  were  flame, 

But  now,  gone  out,  in  ashes  lie. 

Lighting  no  more  the  paths  of  men, 

Who  foolishly  admire,  and  die. 
28 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Aurelius. 

But  say  that  they  immortal  are, 
And  say  that  fame  immortal  be, 

When  thou  art,  as  thou  will  be — dust, 
Pray,  how  will  that  advantage  thee  ? 

III. 

Observe  the  little  one-day  fly 
That  spreads  its  summer  wings  : 

So  transient  is  the  life  of  earth, 
So  worthless  human  things. 

What  yesterday  was  seed  of  man 

To-day  is  man  in  turn, 
To-morrow  will  a  mummy  be, 

Or  ashes,  in  an  urn. 

Pass  through  this  little  space  of  time 

The  gods  have  kindly  lent, 
And,  living  naturally,  end 

Thy  journey  in  content  ; 

Just  as  an  olive  when  it  falls, 

Dead  ripe  with  sun  and  dew, 
Thanking  the  power  that  brought  it  forth, 

And  the  tree  whereon  it  grew. 

IV. 

The  Universe  is  ebb  and  flow  ; 
All  things  are  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
29 


Tbe  Morjls  of  Marcus  Aurelius. 

Some  into  life,  some  out  again ; 

Nothing  doth  permanent  remain, 

For  even  of  that  which  now  comes  on 

A  portion  is  already  gone. 

In  this  ever-flowing  stream 

Of  things  which  are.  and  things  which  seem, 

\Vhere  there  is  no  abiding, 

No  barque  at  anchor  riding, 

What  is  there  that  goes  fleeting  by, 

Lust  of  the  flesh,  or  pride  of  the  eye, 

That  a  man  should  set  his  heart  upon  ? 

It  is  just  as  if  he  should  fall  in  love 

"With  one  of  the  sparrows  above, 

Which,  while  he  watches  its  flight, 

Already  has  passed  out  of  sight. 

V. 

Let  all  the  good  thou  dost  to  man 

A  gift  be,  not  a  debt ; 
And  he  will  more  remember  thee 

The  more  thou  dost  forget. 

Do  it  as  one  who  knows  it  not, 

But  rather  like  a  vine, 
That  year  by  year  brings  forth  its  grapes. 

And  cares  not  for  the  wine. 

A  horse,  when  he  has  run  his  race, 
A  dog,  when  tracked  the  game, 


The  Morals  of  Marcus  Aurelius. 

A  bee,  when  it  has  honey  made — 
Do  not  their  deeds  proclaim. 

Be  silent,  then,  and,  like  the  vine, 
Bring  forth  what  is  in  thee  ; 

It  is  thy  duty  to  be  good, 
And  man's  to  honor  thee. 


VI. 


If  the  gods  have  determined  life  for  me, 
They  have  determined  well ;  for,  without    fore 
thought, 

It  is  not  easy  to  imagine  gods. 
As  to  their  harming  me — why  should  they  harm 

me  ? 

Pray  what  advantage  would  that  be  to  them, 
Or  to  the  whole,  whereof  I  am  a  part, 
Which  is  the  object  of  their  providence  ? 
If  they  have  not  determined  life  for  me, 
They  surely  have  determined  for  the  whole, 
And  what  comes  to  me  as  a  part  of  that, 
I  should  accept,  with  pleasure  and  content. 
But  if  they  have  determined  about  nothing — 
Which  I,  for  one,  hold  wicked  to  believe ; 
Or,  if  we  do  believe  it,  let  us  not 
Make  sacrifice,  or  pray,  or  swear  by  them, 
Or  do  aught  reverential  that  we  do, 
As  if  the  gods  were  here,  and  lived  with  us  : 

3* 


The  Potter. 

But  if,  however,  they  determine  nothing, 
I  can  and  will  determine  for  myself ; 
At  least,  I  will  search  into  what  is  good  ; 
And  what  is  good  for  one  is  good  for  all. 
My  mind  is  rational,  companionable, 
My  city  and  my  country  (ruling  both) 
So  far  as  I  am  Antonine,  is  Rome  ; 
So  far  as  I  am  man,  is  the  whole  world. 


THE    POTTER. 

I  WATCHED  a  potter  at  his  wheel  one  day, 
For  he  was  making  pitchers  out  of  clay, 

The  feet  of  beggars  and  the  heads  of  kings, 
Dust  blown  from  old,  dead  cities  far  away. 

Not  Heaven  itself  more  splendid  is  and  high 
Than  was  this  palace,  when  its  kings  went  by, 
Race  after  race.     The  turtle  sits  here  now. 
"Where?    where?"    she  cries.     But  there  is  no 
reply. 

They  who  endowed  with  wisdom  are  like  light, 
Torches  to  guide  their  followers'  feet  aright, 
They  have  not  taken  yet  one  step  beyond 
This  night  of  mystery — this  awful  Night. 

32 


The  Potter. 

Speak  of  these  wise  ones,  then,  with  bated  breath  ; 
The  most  that  of  the  wisest  Wisdom  saith, 

Is — they  bequeathed  you  fables,  nothing  more, 
Before  returning  to  the  sleep  of  death. 

The  great  wheel  of  the  Heavens  will  still  go  round, 
When  you  and  I,  my  friend,  are  underground  ; 

At  once  creating  life,  conspiring  death, 
With  Death  and  Life  inexorably  bound. 

Come,  sit  upon  the  grass,  and  drink  your  wine, 
And  quickly  while  the  suns  of  summer  shine  ; 

For  other  grass  than  that  you  sit  upon 
Will  soon  be  springing  from  your  dust  and  mine. 

When  you  and  I  arc  gone,  for  we  must  go, 
They  will  raise  bricks  above  us,  and  I  know 

That  other  bricks  for  other  tombs  than  ours 
Will  out  of  us  be  moulded.     Be  it  so. 

I  do  not  fear  the  world.     I  do  not  fear 
The  leaving  it,  though  I  confess  it  dear. 

We  should  fear  nothing  but  not  living  well, 
In  the  only  life  and  world  we  know  of — Here. 

But  come,  my  friend,  since  we  must  pass  away, 
Since  all  we  are  goes  back  again  to  clay, 

What  does  it  matter  whether  we  remain 
A  hundred  years,  or  but  a  single  day  ? 

33 


The  Death  of  Moses. 

Be  it  our  care,  since  pitchers  we  began, 

To  hold  the  heart's  good  wine  long  as  we  can, 

Before  the  potter  moulds  our  dust  again 
Into  new  shapes  that  are  no  longer  Man. 


THE   DEATH  OF   MOSES. 

Now  Moses  knew  his  hour  of  death  was  nigh  ; 
For  the  Most  High  commanded  Sammael 
To  fetch  His  servant's  soul  to  Paradise — 
Sammael,  who,   clothed    in    anger,    grasped  his 

sword 
To  slay  him,  and  would  have  slain,  but  for  the 

light 

Wherewith  his  face  shone,  while  his  hand  went  on 
Writing  the  Incommunicable  Name. 
' '  What  ails  thee,  Moses  ?    Why  art  thou  so  pale  ? 
What  evil  hath  befallen  us  ?  "  Zipporah  asked. 
And  Moses  said  :  "  My  hour  of  death  is  come  ! " 
"  What !  must  a  man  who  hath  spoken  with  God 

die  thus  ? 

Thou,  like  a  common  man  ?  "    "I  must,  all  must, 
The  angels  Michael,  Gabriel,  Israfel, 
God  only  is  eternal,  and  dies  not. 
Where  are  my  children  ?  "     "  They  are  put  to 

sleep." 

"Wake  them  ;  for  I  must  say  farewell  to  them." 
34 


The  Death  of  Moses. 

Beside  the  children's  bed  she  wept  and  moaned ; 
"  Wake,  rise,  and  bid  your  father  now  farewell, 
Orphans  !  for  this  is  his  last  day  on  earth !  " 
They  woke  in  terror.     "  Who  will  pity  us 
When  we  are  fatherless  ?  "     "  Who  will  pity  them 
When  they  are  fatherless  ?  "     And  Moses  wept. 
Then  God  spake  to  him  :  "  Dost  thou  fear  to  die  ? 
Or  dost  thou  leave  this  earth  reluctantly  ?  " 
And  Moses  said  :   "  I  do  not  fear  to  die, 
Nor  do  I  leave  this  earth  reluctantly. 
But  I  lament  these  children  of  mine  age, 
Who  have  their  grandsire  and  their  uncle  lost, 
And  who  will  lose  their  father,  if  I  die." 
"  In  whom  did  she,  thy  mother,  then  confide, 
When  thou  by  her  wast  in  the  bulrush  ark 
Committed  to  the  Nile  ?  "     "  In  Thee,  O  Lord  ! " 
"  Who  hardened  Pharaoh's  heart,  and  gave  thee 

power 

Before  him  and  his  gods,  and  to  thy  hand 
A  staff  to  part  the  waters  ?  "     "  Thou,  O  Lord  !  " 
"  And  fearest  to  trust  thy  children  unto  Me, 
Who  am  the  Father  of  the  Fatherless  ? 
Go  ;  take  thy  staff  and  over  the  sea  once  more 
Extend  it,  and  thou  shall  behold  a  sign 
To  strengthen  thy  weak  faith."     And  he  obeyed. 
He  took  the  rod  of  God,  and,  going  down 
To  the  desolate  sea-beach,  he  stretched  it  there. 
The  sea  divided,  as  when  clouds  are  driven 
Along  the  path  of  a  whirlwind,  and  he  saw 

35 


The  Death  of  Moses. 

A  black  rock  in  it,  whereunto  he  went  ; 

And    reaching    soon    the    rock,    a    voice    cried, 

"Smite!  " 

He  smote  ;  it  clave  asunder,  and  therein, 
At  its  foundation  was  a  little  cleft, 
And  in  that  cleft,  with  a  green  leaf  in  its  mouth, 
A  worm,  which  lifting  up  its  voice,  cried  thrice, 
"  Praise  be  to  God,  who  hath  not  forgotten  me, 
Worm  that  I  am,  in  holy  darkness  here  ! 
Praise  be  to  Him,  \vho  cherishes  even  me  !  " 
When  the  low  voice  was  silent,  heard  of  all 
The  angels  in  the  pauses  of  their  hymn, 
For  they  ceased  singing  to  behold  that  sign 
Of  God's  exceeding  love — He  spake  again: 
"  Thou  seest  that  I  consider  and  provide 
Not  for  man  only,  but  for  a  little  worm, 
In  a  rock  whereof  men  know  not,  in  the  waves, 
Far  in  the  dark  depths  of  the  barren  sea. 
Shall  I  forget  thy  children  who  know  Me  ?  " 
Then  Moses,  so  instructed  of  the  Lord, 
Comforted  his  children  and  his  sorrowing  wife  ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  staff,  went  forth  alone, 
To  climb  the  mountain  where  he  was  to  die  ; 
And  where,  when  he  had  closed  his  weary  eyes, 
And  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  pulseless  heart, 
God  kissed  His  servant,  and  he  was  with  Him. 


THE   BRAHMAN'S  LESSON. 

ONE  summer  day  a  farmer  and  his  son 
Were  working  wearily  in  the  harvest-field. 
It  was  a  lonesome  place,  and  dangerous  ; 
For  now  was  come  the  season  of  the  snakes, 
Whereof  the  deadliest,  a  great,  hooded  Thing, 
Did  sting  the  young  man  so  that  suddenly 
He  died,  for  remedy  in  plant,  or  herb, 
Medicinal  root,  or  skill  of  leech,  is  none 
Against  the  venom  of  that  dreadful  death, 
That  darkens  the  eyes  at  noonday  as  with  night, 
And  chills  the  blood  in  the  heart  that  beats  no 

more. 

This  happened;  and  the  father  saw  his  son, 
Struck  out  of  life  so  early,  lie  there  dead, 
And  saw  the  gathering  of  the  hungry  ants, 
Nor  sighed,  nor  ceased  a  moment  from  his  work. 
But  now  a  Brahman  chanced  to  pass  that  way, 
And  saw  all  this,  but  understood  it  not. 
"  Who  is  that  man  there  dead  ?  "     "  He  was  my 

son." 

"  Thy  son  ?  Why  dost  thou  not  lament  him,  then  ? 
Hast  thou  no  love,  nor  sorrow  for  the  dead  ?  " 
"  And  wherefore  sorrow?     From  the  first  bright 

hour 

When  he  is  born,  even  to  his  last  dark  day, 
37 


The  Brahman's  Lesson. 

Man's  steps  are  deathward ;  everything  he  does 

Sets  ever  that  way ;  there  is  no  escape. 

For  the  well-doing  there  is  recompense, 

And  for  the  wicked  there  is  punishment. 

Of  what  avail,  when  they  are  gone,  are  tears  ? 

They  can  in  nowise  help  us,  or  the  dead. 

But  thou  canst  help  me,  Brahman,  if  thou  wilt. 

Go  straightway  to  my  house,  and  tell  my  wife 

What  hath  befallen — that  my  son  is  dead  ; 

And  tell  her  to  prepare  my  noonday  meal." 

"What  manner  of  man  is  this?"  the  Brahman 

thought, 

Indignantly:   "Insensate,  ignorant,  blind, 
He  has  no  human  feeling,  has  no  heart." 
So  thinking,  he  drew  near  the  farmer's  house, 
And  called  his  wife  :   "  Woman,  thy  son  is  dead. 
Thy  husband  bade  me  tell  thee  this  :  and  add 
That  he  is  ready  for  his  noonday  meal." 
The  dead  man's  mother  harkened  to  his  words 
As  calmly  as  the  sky  to  winds  or  waves. 
"  That  son  received  a  passing  life  from  us, 
From  that  old  man,  his  father,  and  from  me, 
His  mother,  but  I  called  him  not  my  son. 
He  was  a  traveller  halting  at  an  inn, 
Of  which  the  master  entertains  the  guests, 
But  not  detains.     He  rested  and  passed  on. 
So  is  it,  sir,  with  mothers,  and  with  sons. 
Why,  then,  should  I  lament  what  was  to  be  ?  " 
Still  wondering,  the  troubled  Brahman  turned 


The  Brahman's  Lesson. 

To  where  the  sister  of  the  dead  man  was, 
Bright  in  the  lotus  bloom  of  womanhood. 
"Thy  brother  is  dead.  Hast  thou  no  tears  for 

him  ?  " 

She  harkened  gravely,  as  the  forest  doth 
To  the  low  murmur  of  the  populous  leaves. 
"Sometimes,"  she   said,  "a   stalwart   woodman 

goes, 

And  with  his  mighty  axe  hews  down  the  trees, 
And  binds  them  fast  together  in  a  raft, 
And  in  a  seaward  river  launches  them. 
Anon  the  wild  wind  rises,  and  the  waves, 
Lashed  in  tumultuous  warfare,  dash  the  raft 
Hither  and  thither,  till  it  breaks  asunder, 
And  the  swift  current,  separating  all, 
Whirls  all  on  ruinous  shores,  to  meet  no  more, 
Such,  and  no  other,  was  my  brother's  fate. 
Why,  then,  should  I  lament  what  was  to  be  ?  " 
Wondering  still  more,  for  still  the  awfulness 
Of  death,  which  they  perceived  not,  was  to  him 
As  palpable  as  his  shadow  on  the  wall, 
The  Brahman  addressed  him  to  the  dead  man's 

wife  : 

"And  thou,  upon  whose  loving  breast  he  lay, 
Heart  answering  heart,  with  lips  that  breathed  in 

sleep 

Remembrance  of  endearments  without  end, 
What  wilt  thou  do  without  him  day  and  night  ?  " 
She  harkened  tenderly,  as  the  summer  noon 

39 


The  Brahman's  Lesson. 

To  the  continuous  cooing  of  the  doves  ; 
"  As  when  two  birds,  that  fly  from  distant  lands, 
One  from  the  East,  the  other  from  the  South — 
They  meet,  and  look  into  each  other's  eyes, 
And,  circling  round  each  other,  bill  to  bill, 
Seek  the  same  nest,  on  temple  roof,  or  tree, 
And  rest  together  till  the  dawn  is  come: 
Such  was  my  husband's  happy  life,  and  mine. 
Was,  but  is  not  ;  for,  as  when  morning  breaks, 
Awakened,  the  coupled  birds  forsake  the  nest, 
And  fly  in  opposite  ways  to  seek  their  food  ; 
They,  if  it  be  their  destiny,  meet  no  more. 
Why,  then,  should  I  lament  what  was  to  be  ?  " 
Silenced  by  their  submission,  which  was  wise, 
Whether  the  foolish  heart  think  so  or  not, 
The  Brahman  watched  the  women  in  the  house, 
As  to  and  fro  their  slender  figures  moved 
Athwart  the  sunlight  streaming  through  the  door. 
While  they  prepared  the  farmer's  noonday  meal, 
And,  watching  them,  was  comforted  to  learn 
The  simple  secret  of  their  cheerful  faith, 
That  Death  the  natural  sequence  is  of  Life, 
And  no  more  dreadful  in  itself  than  Life. 


40 


MASTER   ECKARTS   SERMON. 

(Strassburg,  1320.) 

"  HEAR  Doctor  Eckart,  hear  him  !"  he  began  : 
"  There  was  in  days  of  old  a  learned  man, 
Who  longing  for  the  truth  eight  years  did  pray 
That  God  would  show  him  some  one  who  the  way 
Thereto  would  show.     And  on  a  time,  when  he 
Was  in  great  longing  and  perplexity, 
He  heard  a  voice  from  heaven,  or  in  his  mind  : 
'  Go  to  the  front  of  the  church,  where  thou  wilt  find 
One  that  the  way  to  blessedness  will  show.' 
Thither  he  went  as  fast  as  he  could  go, 
And  found  a  man  whose  clothes  to  rags  were  worn, 
Whose  bare  and  dusty  feet  were  bruised  and  torn, 
Who  looked  like  one  acquainted  long  with  sorrow. 
He  greeted  him  with — '  God  give  you  good-mor 
row.' 

'  I  never  had  ill-morrow.'     Then  said  he, 
Wondering  at  what  he  heard,  '  God  prosper  thee.' 
'  I  never  had  aught  but  prosperity.' 
'  Heaven  save  you,'  said  the  scholar.     He  again  : 
'  Other  than  saved  I  never  was.'     '  Explain  ; 
I  understand  not.'     '  Willingly,'  said  the  man, 
Whose  thoughts  upon  their  conversation  ran  : 
'  Thou  wishest  me  good-morrow  ;  I  reply, 
I  never  had  ill-morrow  ;  for  am  I 


Master  Eckart's  Sermon. 

Hungry  or  thirsty,  I  praise  God  ;  or,  say 

That  I  am  shivering,  as  I  am  to-day — 

Fair  or  foul  weather — hail,  or  snow,  or  rain — 

As  I  praised  God  before,  I  do  again. 

Thence  comes  it  that  I  never  had  ill-morrow. 

And  thou  didst  say,  as  if  I  was  in  sorrow, 

God  prosper  thee,  poor  man  !     I  answer  thus  : 

Sir,  I  have  never  been  unprosperous  : 

For  I  know  how  to  live  with  God,  and  know 

That  what  He  does  is  best,  and  make  it  so  ; 

Pleasure  or  pain,  whatever  may  befall, 

I  take  it  cheerfully,  as  best  of  all, 

And  so  I  never  had  adversity. 

God  bless  thee,  then  saidst  thou  ;  and  I  to  thee — 

I  never  was  unblessed.     I  long  to  be 

Only  of  God's  will  ;  to  the  Will  Divine 

I  have  so  given  what  once  was  will  of  mine 

That  what  God  wills,  I  will,  and  all  is  well.' 

'  But  if  God  were  to  cast  thee  into  Hell, 

What  wouldst  thou  then  ?  '  the  scholar  asked.  And 

he  : 

'  God  cast  me  into  Hell  ?     It  could  not  be  ; 
His  goodness  holds  Him  back.     But,  if  not  so, 
I  have  two  arms  that  would  not  let  Him  go  : 
One  is  Humility,  and  therewith  I 
Would  straight  take  hold  of  His  humanity  ; 
And  with  the  other,  that  lifts  me  above 
Up  to  his  Godhead,  the  right  arm  of  Love, 
I  would  embrace  Him  till  He  came  to  me, 
42 


Master  Echart's  Sermon. 

And  happier  there  with  Him  my  soul  would  be 
Than  in  the  Heavens  without  Him  ! '     Thereupon 
The  scholar  mused,  and  understood  anon 
That  not  the  high  and  learned  path  he  trod, 
But  one  much  lower,  nearest  was  to  God. 
'  Whence  comest  thou  ?  '  he  asked.     '  From  God.' 

'  And  where 
Hast  thou  found  God  ?  '      '  Where  I  abandoned 

care — 

Where  I  abandoned  all.     I  am  a  king  ; 
My  kingdom  is  my  soul,  and  everything, 
Within,  without,  of  which  I  have  control — 
All  that  I  am  does  homage  to  my  soul ; 
No  kingdom  on  the  earth  so  great  as  this.' 
'  And   what  hath  brought  thee    to    such    perfect 

bliss  ? ' 

'  Silence,  and  thought  —  a  mind  with  God  pos 
sessed, 

Resolved  in  nothing  less  than  God  to  rest : 
I  have  found  God — what  more  the  Seraphim  ? 
And  everlasting  rest  and  joy  in  him.'" 

So  Master  Eckart  spake,  and  went  his  way, 
And  many  wondered,  as  they  do  to-day. 


43 


The  Walk  at  Night. 


THE   CUP. 

COME,  fill  the  goblet  up, 
And  pass  the  rosy  wine  ; 

I  will  not  take  the  cup 
From  any  hand  but  thine. 

It  is  not  merely  wine 

That  thou  dost  pour  for  me  ; 
But  something  more  divine 

That  is  bestowed  by  thee. 

Though  water  fill  the  skin, 

The  draught  should  still  be  mine 

For  thou  wouldst  look  therein, 
And  make  the  water — wine. 


THE   WALK   AT   NIGHT. 

TELL  me  what  is  sweeter 

Than  a  walk  at  night, 
With  one  we  love  beside  us 

And  the  moon  in  sight  ? 

Who  would  have  thought  the  Spring-time 

So  prodigal  could  be  ? 
Behold  the  blossoms  burning, 

Like  lamps  on  every  tree. 
44 


The  Ant. 

What  tree  is  this  ?     An  almond  ? 

A  peach,  it  seems  to  me  ; 
And  the  fruit  there — pluck  it  darling, 

The  heart  I  offer  thee. 


THE   ANT. 

Go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard, 

Consider  all  her  ways, 
And  thou  shalt  be  instructed 

To  live  contented  days. 

Not  like  those  fools  of  summer, 
The  wasp  and  dragon-fly, 

That  flaunt  their  gaudy  garments 
For  one  short  hour,  and  die. 

But,  clad  in  sober  sables, 
She  goes  upon  her  way, 

A  busy,  little  housewife, 

Whose  life  is  work,  not  play. 

She  heeds  not  sun  nor  shadow, 
She  knows  not  waste  nor  want, 

But  prudent  is,  like  Nature 
That  loves  the  prosperous  ant. 

45 


LOVERS'  HEARTS. 

(Servian.) 

FULL  of  wine,  two  branches  of  a  vine 

To  the  walls  of  Buda  clung  ; 
But  no,  they  were  not  branches  full  of  wine — 

They  were  lovers,  fair  and  young. 
Happy  both,  and  bound  in  tender  troth, 

They  were  rudely  torn  apart ; 
Dreadful  was  the  dolor  fell  on  both — 

Ruined  hope  and  broken  heart ! 
(Though  those  lovers  now  are  dead, 
This  is  what  their  spirits  said)  : 

"  There's  a  rose  that  in  love's  garden  grows, 

Sweeter,  redder  than  the  rest ; 
Go,  and  pluck,  and  wear  that  royal  rose 

On  thy  heart  and  in  thy  breast ; 
Watch  it,  and  as  its  petals  drop  apart, 
Remember  so  my  heart  dies  in  thy  heart !  " 

"  Bright  as  gold,  a  shaft  of  marble  cold 
Rises  where  love's  fountains  flow  ; 

And  on  that  shaft  there  is  a  cup  of  gold. 
And  the  cup  is  full  of  snow  ; 

With  thy  whiter  hand  take  up 

All  the  snow  from  out  that  cup, 
46 


The  Captives  of  Charon. 

And,  like  a  bird  within  its  nest, 

On  my  heart,  and  in  my  breast, 

Softly  lay  the  snow,  and  say  : 

As  it  melts  in  tears  away, 

So  his  hopes  of  life  depart, 

For  so  my  broken  heart  dies  in  thy  heart !  " 


CLEON  AND 


A  DEAR  young  Greek  girl  long  ago 

Went  dreaming  to  a  portico, 

And  sent  abroad  her  thoughts  of  love  ; 

When  lo,  from  somewhere  came  a  dove, 

And  took  the  letter  she  had  writ 

(Scoff  not  graybeard,  to  show  thy  wit), 

To  her  lover  Cleon,  who  received, 

And  to  his  dying  day  believed 

It  was  no  dove  with  silken  fetter 

But  yEgle's  Heart  that  bore  the  Letter  ! 


THE  CAPTIVES   OF  CHARON. 

(Romaic.) 

ALONG  the  gloomy  hills, 

Where  the  winds  of  winter  blow, 
I  see  the  awful  shadow 

Of  Charon  come  and  go. 

47 


The  Captives  of  Charon. 

Before  him  he  drives  the  young, 

Behind  he  drags  the  old, 
And,  seated  on  his  saddle, 

The  children  he  doth  hold. 

The  old  men  come  and  pray, 

Their  hands  the  young  men  wring, 

"  O  halt  beside  some  village, 
Beside  some  flowing  spring  ! 

That  the  old  may  quench  their  thirst, 
The  young  the  discus  throw, 

And  the  children  gather  flowers 
That  on  the  margin  grow." 

But  Charon  shakes  his  head, 

And  hurries  on  the  way  ; 
"  I  halt  beside  no  village, 

And  by  no  spring  I  stay. 

For  mothers  coming  there 

Would  know  the  babes  they  bore, 
And  their  late-lost  wives  the  husbands- 

And  none  could  part  them  more." 

So  Charon  over  the  hills, 
With  swift  and  silent  tread, 

Upon  his  black  horse  mounted 
Compels  the  Captive  Dead  ! 
48 


A  LAMENT. 

(Japanese. ) 

FIVE  long,  dreary  years  have  fled 

Since  I  saw  my  lover  dead, 

And  never  once  since  that  dark  hour 

Have  my  fingers  had  the  power 

To  loosen  his  girdle  from  my  breast, 

Where  nevermore  will  lover  rest. 

Before  my  cottage,  poor  and  low, 
Pinks,  which  are  Love's  buds,  I  sow, 
But  the  poor  things  will  not  grow. 
Barrenly  stretch  the  marshes  long, 
All  over  which,  so  shrill  and  strong, 
Rises  the  desolate  cormorant's  song. 
But  is  it  the  cormorant  I  hear, 
That,  just  now  distant,  now  is  near  ? 
And  sudden  rain  from  the  autumn  skies, 
That  so  bedims  my  weary  eyes  ? 
Ah  no  :  it  is  the  tears  I  shed, 
And  my  lamentation  for  the  dead  ! 


49 


THE    PEARL. 

(Japanese. ) 

THE  maple  lifts  her  head, 
Crowned  with  autumnal  red, 
Where  I,  who  love  the  girl, 
Plunge  for  the  biggest  pearl, 
Down  under  the  deep  waves, 
And  round  the  hollow  caves, 
Where  angry  waters  whirl. 

"Wert  thou  a  pearl,"  she  cried, 

"  I  would  clasp  thee  on  my  arm, 

To  protect  me  like  a  charm 

From  all  the  world  beside. 

I  give  my  heart  to  thee, 

Do  thou  give  thine  to  me  ; 

Be  this  the  hour  and  place, 

For  on  my  lonely  bed, 

With  the  bride -wreath  oh  my  head, 

I  wait  for  thy  embrace." 


Carissima. 
NO  JEWELS. 

(Hafiz.) 

No  tire-woman  here  is  needed 
To  clothe  thy  body,  Dear  ! 

The  tip  of  a  woman's  finger, 
And  the  small  shell  of  her  ear, 

Require  no  precious  jewels, 
Nor  no  such  thing 
As  a  turquoise  ring. 
Her  loveliness  is  clear, 
All  that  it  lacks  is  a  smile — 
Perhaps  a  tear ! 


CARISSIMA. 

OR  ever  you  came  weeping, 

Your  lonely  vigil  keeping, 

Where  the  dust  of  Love  is  sleeping, 
Machree  ! 

Like  a  wood-mouse  softly  creeping, 

Where  the  pale  moonshine  is  sweeping 
The  locks  of  the  sea, 
For  you,  dear,  and  me. 

S1 


At  Drachenfels. 

Your  Patrick  will  love  you, 
Till  the  great  Day  above  you 

Has  plunged  into  Night  ; 
Till  the  sea  is  drained  dry 
By  the  sip  of  a  fly, 
Till  the  dead  are  alive,  and  the  far  is  the  nigh  ; 

In  the  kingdom  of  light, 

Let  me  die  at  your  feet, 
Nora,  sweet ! 


AT   DRACHENFELS. 

ALL  simple  folk,  like  dogs  and  children  dear,    • 
Are  experts  in  the  language  of  the  eyes  ; 
The  spirit  that  behind  the  letter  lies 
To  their  sharp  sense  is  clear, 
And  the  words  that  are  unspoken  they  can  hear. 
Then  why  not  I  and  you  ? 
We  love,  or  think  we  do, 
While  the  river  rushes  by, 
And  the  summer  sky  is  blue. 
Then  fill  our  cups  with  wine, 
I,  yours,  and  you,  mine. 
For  long  before  all  these, 
Whatever  be  their  shapes, 
Before  the  wine  the  grapes, 
And  before  the  grapes  the  vine, 
52 


At  Merry  Mount. 

Where  it  sparkles  in  the  showers,  and  dances  in 

the  breeze, 

Was  your  love  and  mine  ! 
Such,  dear,  as  I  surmise, 
Is  the  verdict  of  your  eyes, 

As  we   stroll  this  summer  noon,   by  the  many- 
castled  Rhine. 


AT   MERRY    MOUNT. 

OH,  what  is  the  use  now  of  sighing, 

When  any  or  all  things  go  wrong  ? 
Why  question,  when  there's  no  replying? 

Much  better  go  sing  an  old  song. 
Leave  to  women  repining  and  dying, 

A  man  should  be  merry  and  strong, 

The  worst,  when  it  comes,  is  but  dying, 

And  the  longest  of  lives  is  not  long. 

Sing,  "  Care  hanged  a  cat, 
And  Sorrow  drowned  a  rat, 
But  a  cavalier  wears  a  long  feather  in  his  hat, 

In  his  hat,  hat,  hat, 
For  the  cavalier  wears  a  long  feather  in  his  hat ! " 

Suppose  you  have  lost  all  your  treasure 

(If  you  ever  had  any  to  lose), 
You  still  have  enough  left  for  pleasure, 

If  you  still  have  your  legs  and  your  shoes! 

S3 


Birds  of  a  Feather. 

Come  on,  then,  and  trip  us  a  measure, 
Round  the  merry  May-pole  in  the  dews  ; 

Dance !     The  Sun  dances  up  in  the  air, 
To  the  tune  of  "  Away  with  the  blues  !  " 
Sing,  "  Care  hanged  a  cat, 
And  Sorrow  drowned  a  rat, 

But  the  cavalier  wears  a  long  feather  in  his  hat, 
In  his  hat,  hat,  hat, 

For  the  cavalier  wears  a  long  feather  in  his  hat ; 
Hearts  go  pit-a-pat 
(Take  that,  that,  and  that). 

Oh,  the  cavalier  wears  a  long  feather  in  his  hat ! " 


BIRDS    OF   A   FEATHER. 

IMPORTUNE  me  no  more, 

Close-fisted  wife  of  mine, 
Go  in  and  shut  the  door, 

I  go  elsewhere  to  dine  ; 

For  where  the  tapers  shine 
A  score  of  good  fellows  be, 
With  whom  till  the  night  is  late 

I  purpose  to  have  some  wine 

(Scant  in  this  house  of  thine), 
And  pledge  old  wives  like  thee, 
Who  hope  to  keep  young  husbands  straight 

By  holding  the  purse-strings  tight. 

But,  pauca  verba,  good-night ! 
54 


Whence  and  Whither? 

— Have  with  you,  boys  !    Birds  of  a  feather 

Roost  all  night  together ; 

And  whether 
We  gather  in  hall  or  heather, 

We  bouse  all  night  together ! 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

I  SAID  to  Fate,  Let  be, 

Since  I  have  done  with  thee, 

Or  heap  upon  my  head 

The  ashes  of  the  dead, 

And  huddle  out  of  sight 

The  thing  that  once  was  me. 

For  when  his  head  is  white, 

And  he  is  poor  and  old, 

'Tis  time  his  grave  was  made  ; 

Fetch  mattock,  then,  and  spade, 

And  let  the  bell  be  tolled. 

And  so,  Sweet  Fool,  Good-night ! 


WHENCE   AND   WHITHER? 

THIS  is  what  he  said  in  brief, 
Sekasa,  the  Kaffir  chief, 
To  the  Frenchman,  Arbrousset, 
As  beneath  the  palms  they  lay. 

55 


Whence  and  Whither? 

' '  I  shepherded  that  time  my  flock 
Twelve  long  years  :  then  on  a  rock 
I  sat  me  down,  thereon  to  mark 
What  would  happen  in  the  dark. 
Questions  many  I  asked,  but  none 
Answered — could  not  answer  one  : 
None  who  made  the  Stars,  nor  who 
Taught  them  their  dances  in  the  blue. 
Do  the  Waters,  swift  and  bright, 
As  they  flow  from  morn  to  night 
Never  weary  of  their  race  ? 
Whence  and  whither,  to  what  place  ? 
Where  do  they  find  rest, 
In  what  arms,  and  on  what  Breast  ? 
Whence  and  whither  go  the  Clouds, 
In  wedding  garments,  and  in  shrouds  ? 
Such  imperishable  crowds  ! 
Whither  away, 
By  night  and  day, 
Like  shadows  over  a  magic  glass, 
Do  they  pass,  and  pass,  and  pass  ? 
Weeping  out  themselves  in  rain, 
They  are  falling  now  again. 
What  sends  them, 
And  ends  them, 

And  who  when  all  is  done,  befriends  them  ? 
We  have  many  a  sharp  diviner 
(Though  you  French  savants  are  finer), 
But  they  do  not  fetch  the  rain, 
56 


Whence  and  Whither? 

They  have  no  means  of  making  it, 

Nor  any  chance  of  breaking  it, 

Nor  do  I  see  them,  though  I  watch  well, 

Go  for  it,  either  to  Heaven  or  Hell ; 

But  somehow  they  seem  to  have  the  spell. 

I  cannot  see  the  Wind, 

Above,  before,  behind. 

I  know  not  whence  it  is, 

Whether  from  bale,  or  bliss  : 

I  feel  what  makes  it  come  and  go, 

And  rage,  and  worry,  and  roar, 

For  I  live,  you  know,  on  the  shore 

Where  the  blasts  of  the  desert  blow. 

But  I  shall  never  know 

How  the  luscious  corn  doth  grow. 

Yesterday,  yes,  it  was  yesterday, 

There  was  not  a  blade  of  grass  in  my  field, 

That  is  thick  to-day  as  a  warrior's  shield  ; 

For  look  to-day, 

And  look  far  away, 

It  is  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  sky  over  all  is  serene. 

Who  gave  it  this  power  to  bring  forth  ? 

Who  and  what,  save  Earth, 

Who  folds  us  all  in  her  broad  arms'  girth, 

Our  young,  old  Mother,  the  Earth  ?  " 


57 


THE   ARCHETYPAL   MAN. 

I  hear  the  father  of  the  ancient  men." — BLAKE. 

ON  what  historic  page, 
In  what  forgotten  age, 
Out  of  the  world  of  night, 
Rose  this  great  Son  of  Light  ? 
Did  he  run  as  the  wild  deer  ran, 
Down  the  slopes  of  Industan, 
Rushing  as  tempests  rush 
Over  the  hills  of  the  Hindu  Kush, 
Sheer  into  the  Sacred  River, 
Whence  none  may  deliver, 

On,  still  on, 

Till  the  last  was  gone, 
Sunk  in  the  Holy  River  ? 
Dropt  from  the  peaks  of  Industan, 
When  the  longest  year  is  a  span  ? 

Not  from  the  East, 

Where  life  is  a  feast, 

Nor  adrift  from  the  North, 

Where  Ice  puts  forth 
From  the  gulf  of  the  Boreal  Sea — 

What  time,  or  Place 

Produced  the  Race, 
Forerunners  of  you  and  ME  ? 
58 


The  Archetypal  Man. 

Dead,  aeons  and  aeons  ago, 

Where  wild  winds  blow, 

Sifting  and  drifting  Snow  ! 

The  caverns  of  France, 

Where  damoiselles  dance, 
On  kitchen-middens  remote, 

On  sunken  piles, 

In  small  Swiss  isles, 
Where  shallops  to-day  still  float  : 

Where  we  discover  their  barbed  hooks, 

Which,  unto  scholars,  are  curious  books, 

Graven  and  carven  of  old, 

With  images  manifold, 

Writ  with  the  primitive  Pen 

Of  the  Father  of  Ancient  Men  ! 

Shot  headlong  into  the  waves, 

He  rises  in  mountain  caves, 

Dark  except  for  the  light 

Of  the  stalactite, 

Still  as  the  death  lurking  there 

(Which  nothing  may  spare), 

In  the  sea-lion's  maw, 

And  the  bear's  blunt  paw, 

Where  the  billows  tumble  in  brine, 

And  many  a  vine 

Trails  hither  and  thither  along, 

Strange  as  the  curlew's  song  ! 

There,  where  elk  and  deer, 

Are  scratched  on  the  Elephant's  tusk, 

59 


Where  lingers  the  odor  of  musk 

Like  Summer  all  through  the  year  ! 

What  gods  do  they  love— or  fear  ? 

The  same  whereunto  we  bow, 

Idols  that  baffle  us  now  ; 

Not  wiser  now  than  then, 

Than  Thou  wert,  O  Father  of  Men  ! 


FOUR    GAZELES  OF    HAFIZ. 
I. 

0  WIND  !  if  thou   should'st  chance  to   pass  the 

land, 

The  happy  region,  where  my  mistress  is, 
Bring  me  sweet  scents  from  her  ambrosial  curls. 

By  her  dear  life  it  would  fill  my  soul  with  bliss 
An  thou  would'st  fetch  me  a  message  from  her 
heart. 

If  Heaven  refuse  this  boon — why,  then  bring  dust 
To  my  two  eyes  from  my  beloved's  house. 

1  pray  that  she  may  come — unhappy  wretch  ! 
When  shall  my  weeping  eyes  behold  her  face  ? 

I  tremble  like  a  reed,  so  strong  my  love 
To  see  my  fair  one,  stately  as  the  pine. 
60 


Four  Gametes  of  Haft^. 

Albeit  she  love  me  not,  I  would  not  give 
One  hair  of  her  dear  head  for  all  the  world. 

Though  free  from  trouble,  what  does  Hafiz  gain, 
Whose  heart  is  but  the  slave  of  his  Beloved  ? 


II. 


That  beauteous  idol  with  the  stony  heart, 
And  ornaments  of  silver  in  her  ears, 
She  robs  me  of  my  reason  and  my  rest. 

Could  I  enfold  her  like  the  robe  she  wears, 
Soon  as  I  touched  this  robe,  her  inmost  robe, 
And  clothed  her  with  myself,  my  heart  would  rest. 

If  all  my  bones  were  mouldered  into  dust, 
My  soul  could  not  forget  its  love  for  her. 

Her  neck  and  breast,  her  snow-white  neck,  her 

breast, 
They  plunder  me  of  my  heart,  my  faith,  and  heart. 

Hafiz,  the  only  cure — the  sovran  cure, 

Is  in  her  full,  sweet  lips,  her  honeyed  mouth. 


III. 


O  balmy  Wind  !  hast  thou  my  mistress  seen  ? 
Thou  must  have  stolen  that  musky  scent  from  her  ; 
61 


Four  Ga^eles  of  Hafi^. 

Beware  !  thy  fingers  are  too  free  by  far, 

For  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  her  bright  curls  ? 

O  Rose  !  how  can'st  thou  rival  her  red  cheek  ? 
Her  cheek   is  smooth,    but   thine  is    rough  with 
thorns. 

And    how   dar'st  thou,   Sweet   Basil  !     sport  thy 

locks  ? 
Her  locks  are  glossy,  thine  are  brown  as  dust. 

And  thou,  Narcissus  !  wherefore  gaze  at  her  ? 
Her  eyes  are  bright,  but  thine  are  dim  with  sleep, 

O  Cypress  !  when  her  stately  form  draws  near, 
Why  wilt  thou  hope  to  be  the  garden's  pride  ? 

What  would'st  thou  choose,   O   Wisdom  !    if  to 

choose 
Were  left  thee  still — in  preference  to  Love  ? 

Be  patient,  Hafiz  !  if  thy  love  endure — 

If  may  be  thine,  some  day,  to  meet  thy  love. 


IV. 


If  that  fair  maid  of  Shiraz  would  be  mine, 
I  would  Bokhara  give,  and  Samarcand, 
Just  for  the  small,  black  mole  upon  her  cheek  : 
62 


Four  Gametes  of  Hafi%. 

Go   straightway,  boy,  and  bring  what  wine   re 
mains  ; 

We  shall  not  find  the  banks  of  Rocnabad, 
Nor  the  bowers  of  Mosellay,  in  Paradise. 

Ah  me,  those  wanton  nymphs,  those  cunning  girls, 
For  whose  ripe  charms  Shiraz  is  up  in  arms — 
They  steal  my  peace  of  mind,  my  quiet  heart. 
They  need  not,  dear  ones,  our  imperfect  love, 
Fair  faces  need  not  perfume,  paint,  nor  curls. 

Discourse  with  me  of  minstrels  and  of  wine, 
Nor  seek  the  secrets  of  Futurity ; 
No  man  can  solve  that  riddle.     Let  it  rest. 
Love  rules  us  all,  but  Beauty  still  rules  Love  ; 
Nor  wonder,  then,  that  Yussef's  loveliness 
Plucked  off  Zuleika's  veil  of  modesty. 

Hear  sage  advice,  dear  heart,  for  tender  youths 
Love  old  men's  counsels  better  than  their  souls. 
Thou  speak'st  ill  of  me,  without  offence  ; 
May  God  forgive  thee,  thou  hast  spoken  well  ; 
But  ah,  do  bitter  words  become  thy  mouth, 
Those  ruby  lips,  whence  only  sweetness  falls  ? 

Thou  hast  composed   thy  song,  and  strung  thy 

pearls, 

Now  sing  them  sweetly,  Hafiz,  do  thy  best  ; 
For  heaven  has  sprinkled  over  all  thy  songs 
The  light  and  beauty  of  the  Pleiades. 

63 


THE   LADY   OF   THE   EAST. 

WHO  art  thou,  Lady  of  the  East, 
Whose  day  of  eyes  and  night  of  hair 

The  daughter  of  a  king,  at  least, 
Proclaim,  so  brightly,  darkly  fair  ? 

Thy  life  is  a  perpetual  feast, 
\Vith  but  a  single  shadow  there. 

What  is  it,  Lady  ?     Some  sweet  thing 
Which  once  was  thine,  but  now  is  fled  ? 

Thy  lute  hath  lost  its  golden  string  ? 
Thy  rose  its  freshest  odor  shed  ? 

The  bird  thou  lovest  has  taken  wing, 
And  to  another  sings  instead  ? 

W7hat  is  it,  Princess,  that  hath  cast 
This  sudden  sadness  on  thy  brow  ? 

The  shadow  of  what  loving  Past  ? 
The  memory  of  what  broken  vow  ? 

Girlhood  hath  gone  from  thee  at  last, 
And  thou  art  perfect  woman  now. 

I  see  thee  as  thou  standest  there 

With  those  mysterious  eyes  of  thine, 

And  all  that  midnight  length  of  hair, 

Like  Dis's  pall  on  Proserpine  ; 

64 


The  Lady  of  the  East. 

I  only  know  that  thou  art  fair, 
I  only  wish  that  thou  wert  mine. 

What  Earth's  first  women  were  thou  art, 
Glorious  and  gracious  to  behold, 

With  greater  steadfastness  of  heart, 
Though  cast  in  less  heroic  mould. 

And  yet  with  tears  that  sooner  start, 
And  smiles  that  were  not  known  of  old. 

Thou  hast  no  need  to  wear  a  crown, 

So  royal  in  thyself  art  thou  ; 
And  whether  Fortune  smile,  or  frown, 

Thou  hast  the  same  unruffled  brow  ; 
Content  if  only  men  bow  down 

And  worship  thee — as  I  do  now. 

I  love  thee,  and  will  be  to  thee 
All  that  all  men  have  been,  and  more  ; 

Love  me,  and  thou  shalt  be  to  me 
What  never  woman  was  before  : 

Be  thou  the  shore,  and  I  the  sea, 
And  let  the  great  Sea  kiss  the  shore. 


ROMANCES    FROM    GUSTAVO 
BECQUER. 


I. 


I  DARE  behold  thee  asleep, 
Awake,  I  tremble  and  weep  ; 

So,  life  of  my  life,  let  me  watch  thee, 
While  thou  art  asleep,  asleep. 

I  press  my  hand  on  my  heart, 
So  wild  are  its  beatings  and  deep, 

Lest  they  trouble  the  peace  of  midnight, 
Where  thou  art  asleep,  asleep 

I  draw  thy  shutters  close, 
And  nightly  my  watch  I  keep, 

Lest  the  dawn  too  early  should  wake  thee, 
When  thou  art  asleep,  asleep. 

II. 

A  tear  was  in  her  eye, 
But  the  tear  was  not  shed  ; 

A  word  was  on  my  lip, 
But  the  word  was  not  said. 
66 


Romances  from  Gustavo  Becquer. 

Why  did  we  meet  and  part, 
So  near  that  day,  and  dear  ? 

Why  was  the  word  not  said  ? 
And  why  not  shed  the  tear  ? 


III. 

The  vision  of  thine  eyes 

Is  ever  in  my  mind, 
Like  the  glory  of  the  sun 

In  the  memory  of  the  blind. 

Wherever  I  may  go, 
Lo,  thou  hast  gone  before  ; 

I  do  not  find  thee  there, 
Only  thine  eyes — no  more. 

They  guide  me  to  my  room, 
They  light  me  to  my  bed  ; 

I  feel  them  in  my  sleep 
Still  watching  o'er  my  head. 

Marsh-fires  that  nightly  lead 
The  wanderer  through  the  gloom  ; 

So  do  thine  eyes  beguile — 
I  know  not  to  what  tomb  ! 


67 


Romances  from  Gustavo  Becquer. 


IV. 

That  she  is  proud,  capricious,  void  of  worth, 
I  know,  who  long  have  suffered  from  her  art ; 

Sooner  shall  water  from  a  rock  break  forth 
Than  feeling  from  her  heart. 

Woo  her  who  will,  her  heart  is  still  her  own, 
Love  seeks,  but  finds  no  answering  fibre  there  ; 

Inanimate  she  is — a  thing  of  stone — 
But  oh,  so  fair,  so  fair ! 

V. 

As  in  an  open  volume, 

I  read  your  deep,  deep  eyes  ; 

Why  frame,  then,  shallow  stories 
Which  every  glance  belies  ? 

That  you  a  little  loved  me 

Be  not  ashamed  to  say  ; 
If  a  man  weeps  (/am  weeping), 

Be  sure  a  woman  may  ! 

VI. 

I  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 

Where  the  lamp-light  could  not  fall ; 

Silent,  as  though  I  were  dead, 

With  blank  eyes  fixed  on  the  wall. 
68 


Romances  from  Gustavo  Becquer. 

I  sat  on  my  bed  alone, 

Till  the  long,  dark  night  was  done, 
And  in  at  the  window  shone 

The  insolent  light  of  the  sun. 

What  terrible,  nameless  woe, 
What  memories  over  me  rolled, 

I  know  not  ;   I  only  know 

I  grew  in  that  one  night — old. 

VII. 

The  dusky  swallows  will  return, 

And,  building  as  before, 
Beneath  your  eaves  their  hanging  nests, 

Will  call  their  young  once  more. 

But  those  that  used  to  check  their  wings, 
As  they  flew  along  the  shore, 

To  watch  your  beauty  and  my  love — 
They  will  return  no  more. 

The  honeysuckles  will  return, 
And  climb  your  garden  wall, 

And  once  more  will  their  flowers  unfold, 
When  night  begins  to  fall. 

But  those  that  earliest  caught  the  dew, 

Beside  your  lattice-door, 
And  held  it  till  the  morn  was  come — 

They  will  return  no  more. 
69 


Romances  from  Gustavo  Becquer. 

Once  more  the  burning  words  of  love 

Upon  your  ears  may  break, 
And  from  its  slumber  long  and  deep 

Once  more  your  heart  may  wake. 

But  speechless,  kneeling  at  your  feet, 
Like  those  who  saints  adore, 

Though  I  may  love  you  (as  I  shall) 
I  shall  return  no  more  ! 

VIII. 

Before  thou  diest  I  shall  die, 

For  in  my  heart  I  bear, 
Bleeding  to  death,  the  cruel  steel 

Thy  hand  hath  planted  there. 

Before  thou  diest  I  shall  die, 

But  faithful  still  shall  be, 
For  seated  at  the  gate  of  death, 

My  soul  will  wait  for  thee. 

Day  after  day,  year  after  year, 

Until  thy  life  be  past, 
And  at  that  portal  thou  shalt  knock 

Where  all  must  knock  at  last. 

Then,  when  the  earth  is  lying  soft 

On  thee — thy  lips  and  eyes, 
When  plunged  in  death's  baptismal  stream 

Washed  pure,  thou  shalt  arise  ; 
70 


Out-of-Doors. 

There,  where  the  tumult  of  mankind 

Is  heard  and  seen  no  more, 
Gone,  like  the  wind  that  raised  the  wave, 

The  spent  wave  on  the  shore  : 

There,  where  to  live  is  not  to  die, 

To  love  is  not  to  fear — 
We  shall  know  all ;  for  we  shall  speak 

All  that  we  spake  not  here  ! 


OUT-OF-DOORS. 

WRITING  in-doors  all  my  life, 

As  boy  alone,  as  man  with  wife, 

Prisoned  close  in  city  walls, 

Where  the  sunlight  seldom  falls  ; 

With  the  coming  on  of  age 

I  have  slowly  grown  more  sage, 

In  happier  thoughts  and  higher  lores, 

Writing  only  out-of-doors. 

Out-of-doors  on  a  summer  day, 
Where  the  leaves  are  at  their  play, 
Parleying  with  the  fitful  breeze, 
Or  the  murmur  of  the  seas  ; 
Seated  here,  in  this  old  porch, 
Youth  returning  waves  his  torch, 
And  my  soul  to  song  restores, 
Singing  and  soaring  out-of-doors. 


Music. 


UNCERTAIN   SOUNDS. 

THE  wind  in  the  leaves, 

The  rain  on  the  eaves, 

Or  the  low,  continuous  roar 

Of  the  rolling  waves  on  the  distant  shore 

Who  shall  declare 

What  sounds  they  be  ? 
Whether  lost  in  the  air, 

Or  found  on  the  sea, 
And  whether  they  laugh,  or  sigh  ? 
Not  I. 

I  only  know 

That  they  come,  and  go, 
And  people  the  hollow  sky. 


MUSIC. 

NEVER  till  now  did  I  hear 
In  this  close  atmosphere 
Of  wind  and  whirling  sand, 
Or,  hearing,  understand, 
The  spells  that  in  Music  be ; 
Nor  by  what  secret  laws 
The  soul  of  man  she  draws, 
As  the  orb  of  the  Moon  the  Sea. 
72 


A  Sailor  Song. 

Round  after  round 
Of  the  ladder  of  sound 

I  follow  her,  higher,  higher  ; 
Like  an  arrow  of  light 
Shot  over  the  Night 

By  the  Morning's  bow  of  fire, 
I  cleave  my  way 
To  the  spring  of  Day ; 

Where  the  airs  are  drifted  along, 

Heavy  with  odors  of  song. 


A  SAILOR  SONG. 

BOURBON  and  Braganza, 

They  say,  are  royal  strains  ; 
The  blood  of  fifty  sailors 
Is  running  in  my  veins  ; 
With  a  yo-heave-ho, 
And  a  rumbelow ! 
Flowing,  flowing, 
Coming,  going, 
Not  a  waft  in  vain 
To  my  little  pinnace  along  the 
Spanish  main, 

From  dawn  till  day  is  done 
To  a  sailor's  son. 


73 


Implora  Pacem. 

The  name  that  I  bear 
Means,  they  all  declare, 
Pennon,  standard-bearer, 
Stalwart  armor-wearer, 
Descendant  of  stout  fellows, 
Whom  the  Winter  sun  still  mellows, 

With  a  yo-heave-ho, 

And  a  rombelow 
To  sailor  sire  and  son. 


IMPLORA   PACEM. 

WHY  this  ado  art  making  ? 

Wherefore  and  whence  this  sighing, 
This  inward  sobbing,  crying  ? 

Of  whose  woe  art  thou  partaking  ? 
It  will  end  at  last  with  dying. 
Kyrie,  eleyson. 

Why  art  this  low  wail  making  ? 

From  whom  art  thou  imploring? 

For  what  dear  one's  restoring  ? 
Whose  soul  is  life  forsaking  ? 

O,  what  art  thou  adoring  ? 
Kyrie,  eleyson. 

No  longer  dirges  making, 
No  more  of  ceaseless  sighing, 
74 


The  Captain's  Song. 

Wringing  of  hands  and  crying 
(Asking,  and  no  replying), 
An  end  to  thy  heart-breaking  ! 
All's  over  now,  he's — dying  ! 
Kyrie,  eleyson. 

CHRISTE,  ELEYSON. 


THE   CAPTAIN'S   SONG. 

IN  my  sluggish  gait, 

As  it  drags  along  of  late, 
Is  the  roll  of  the  Captain  on  the  deck ; 
Or  the  lurch  of  the  sailor  in  the  hold, 

Courageous  from  of  old, 

In  the  storm  and  in  the  wreck ; 

In  the  rising,  setting  suns, 

The  thunder  of  the  guns — 

With  a  heave-and-a-ho 

And  a  loud  rumbelow ; 

In  every  sort  of  breeze. 

On  southern,  northern  seas, 

Like  a  dancing  leg, 

At  Old  Wapping  Stairs, 

Where  Meg,  and  Poll,  and  Peg 

Are  dancing  unawares, 

Like  you,  Bess,  and  me, 

Near  the  margent  of  the  sea  ; 

75 


To  Julia. 

At  Oxford,  or  Cambridge,  where  ferrymen  abound, 

And  merry  men  are  found, 

But  sober,  or  tipsy, 

Not  the  Scholar  Gypsy, 

Who  forsook  his  learned  books 

For  forests,  streams,  and  nooks, 
And  was  robbed,  or  was  hanged,  or  was  drowned, 
Two  hundred  years  ago — 
With  his  heave  and  his  ho, 
And  his  mournful  rombelow, 
With  not  a  soul  to  know, 
Or  to  toll  his  passing  knell, 
His  Ding-Dong-Bell. 


TO  JULIA. 

SISTER  of  ours,  child  of  the  flowers, 
With  the  dews  of  thy  Maytime  still  wet, 
Fair  Julia,  our  dear  Juliet, 
Graced  of  the  days  and  the  hours, 
Watched  over  by  all  the  high  Powers, 
My  best  one,  my  own, 
Queen  on  my  throne, 
The  song  I  am  singing  is  thine, 
O,  sister  and  daughter  of  mine. 
Let  thy  soft  eyes  incline 
To  where  in  the  darkness  I  pine, 
76 


In  the  Meadows. 

Singing  right  out  of  my  heart, 
And  not  through  the  cold  lips  of  art. 
I  kiss  thee,  my  sweet, 
Thy  hands  and  thy  feet, 
Ah— all  that  is  Thee  ! 
Bestow  of  thy  large  love  a  little  on  me. 


IN  THE   MEADOWS. 

TRAMPING  through  the  meadows, 

In  the  summer  day, 
Under  the  blue  arch  of  sky, 
When  the  clouds  go  sailing  by, 

On  their  windy  way  ; 

Through  the  bending  grasses,     . 

Tall  and  lushy  green, 
All  alive  with  tiny  things, 
Stirring  feet  and  whirring  wings, 

Just  an  instant  seen  ; 

Down  each  fragrant  hollow, 

Up  each  little  hill, 
Leaping  ditches,  crossing  brooks, 
In  the  heart  of  shady  nooks, 

Fresh,  and  cool,  and  still ; 

77 


In  the  Snow. 

Past  the  spear-like  rushes, 

Swaying  to  and  fro, 
And  along  the  river's  bed, 
Where  grows  the  broad-leaved  arrow-head- 

I  wonder  where  the  bow  ? 

Lost  somewhere  in  the  meadows, 

Like  what  I  meant  to  sing — 
Who  can  tell  what  way  it  went  ? 
Or  lies  it  in  my  mind  unbent, 

A  bow  without  a  string  ? 


IN   THE   SNOW. 

NOT  as  in  this  winter's  snow, 
Where,  while  lost  therein,  I  see 
No  one  out  of  doors  but  me  ; 
No  one  in  the  buried  street, 
Nor  in  the  cold  blast  of  the  sleet  ; 
But  five-and-twenty  years  ago, 
When  beneath  a  hostile  star, 
The  whole  land  was  wrapt  in  war 
(Naught  to  hope,  but  much  to  fear), 
When  these  long  embankments  here 
Were  projected,  not  in  white 
But  in  great  earth-works  of  red  clay, 
Low  in  the  morning,  high  at  night, 
78 


How  and  Why. 

I  tramp  through  the  meadows,  sad  and  slow, 
Where  the  distant  bugles  seem  to  blow 
Back  to  that  burning  August  day  ! 


HOW   AND   WHY. 

IF  one  could  understand 

The  things  that  are  close  at  hand, 

The  How  and  the  Why, 

He  never  need  die. 

The  flowers  which  bloom, 

With  their  hidden  perfume, 

Where  the  spider  weaves  in  its  fairy  loom  ; 

The  rivulet  which  sings 

Of  the  far-off  springs  ; 

The  leaf  on  the  tree, 

Dancing  in  glee 

To  an  inward  melody  ; 

Trees,  spiders,  flowers  declare 

Secrets  of  earth  and  air, 

And  all  make  reply  : 

"  O  man,  you  need  not  die." 

But  there  cometh — from  where  ? 

This  voice  of  despair. 

"  The  order  of  Nature 

Doth  this  way  tend  ; 

Whatever  was  begun 

Will  surely  have  an  end." 

79 


MORS    ET   VITA. 

"  UNDER  the  roots  of  the  roses, 

Down  in  the  dark,  rich  mould, 
The  dust  of  my  dear  one  reposes 
Like  a  spark  which  night  incloses 

When  the  ashes  of  day  are  cold." 

"  Under  the  awful  wings 
Which  brood  over  land  and  sea, 
And  whose  shadows  nor  lift  nor  flee — 
This  is  the  order  of  things, 
And  hath  been  from  of  old  ; 
First  production, 
And  last  destruction  ; 
So  the  pendulum  swings, 
While  cradles  are  rocked  and  bells  are  tolled." 

"  Not  under  the  roots  of  the  roses, 

But  under  the  luminous  wings 

Of  the  King  of  kings 
The  soul  of  my  love  reposes, 

With  the  light  of  morn  in  her  eyes, 
Where  the  Vision  of  Life  discloses 

Life  that  sleeps  not  nor  dies." 

"  Under  or  over  the  skies 
What  is  it  that  never  dies  ? 
80 


The  Singer. 

Spirit — if  such  there  be — 

Whom  no  one  hath  seen  nor  heard, 
We  do  not  acknowledge  thee  ; 

For,  spoken  or  written  word, 
Thou  art  but  a  dream,  a  breath  ; 
Certain  is  nothing  but  Death  !  " 


THOUGHT. 

ACROSS  the  tense  chords 

Thought  runs  before  words, 
Brighter  than  dew, 

And  keener  than  swords. 
Whence  it  cometh, 

And  whither  it  goes, 
All  may  conjecture, 

But  no  man  knows. 

It  ebbs  and  flows 

In  the  dance  of  the  leaves, 

The  set  of  summer  eaves, 
The  scent  of  the  violets,  the  odor  of  the  rose. 


THE  SINGER. 

THE  only  good  method 
Of  head  or  of  heart, 

Is  the  one  which  produces 
The  perfectest  art. 
8r 


A  Fantasy. 

The  voice  of  the  lark, 

As  it  rings  on  high, 
Was  begot  in  the  dark 
And  flung  like  a  spark 

Out  into  the  sky, 
With  the  clouds  below, 
Like  mountains  of  snow 

And  day  near  by. 

So  the  lark  sings, 

With  light  on  his  wings, 
And  so,  when  I  can,  do  I. 


A  FANTASY. 

OR  worsted,  or  bettered, 

In  the  combat  of  wit, 
By  lettered,  or  unlettered, 

I  cheerfully  submit  ; 
For,  bumpkin  or  cit, 

You  must  not  think  me  cruel, 

If  winning  this  duel, 
I  parry  with  my  poniard  your  misdirected  wit. 

For  the  weapon  that  I  wear 

Is  le  sabre  de  mon  pere, 

Who  fell  at  Ouatre-Bras, 

And  was  mangled  by  the  paw 

Of  the  gory  British  lion, 

In  sight  of  Waterloo,  a  happy  field  to  die  on, 
82 


Vox  Clamantis. 

In  the  rainy  afternoon 
Of  that  awful  day  in  June, 
To  the  foolish  old  tune — 
I  can  hear  it  still  afar — 
Of  Malbrook  s'en  va-t-en  guerre, 
With  its  sonorous  refrain, 
That  was  never  heard  in  vain, 
Of  "  Mironton,  Mironton,  Mirontaine. 


VOX   CLAMANTIS. 

SHOUTED  a  voice  to  me, 
In  the  silence  of  a  dream 
From  the  sedgy  banks  of  a  stream, 
In  the  bed  of  a  sunken  sea — 
Time  lost  in  Eternity, 
As  I  am  lost  in  thee, 
O,  why  not  thou  in  me, 
Perdita  ? 

Perdita,  dear  one,  flown, 
Leaving  me  here  alone, 
What  else  can  I  do  but  be 
Rivulet,  brooklet  to  thee, 
Best  of  the  best  in  me, 
As  I  am  the  worst  of  thee, 
Oueen  of  my  soul's  high  throne, 
My  darling,  my  love,  my  own, 
PERDITA  ! 

83 


CHILDREN'S   SONGS. 
I. 

"  WHERE  is  the  little  lark's  nest, 

My  father  showed  to  me  ? 
And  where  are  the  pretty  lark's  eggs  ?  " 

Said  Master  Lori  Lee. 
At  last  he  found  the  lark's  nest, 

But  eggs  were  none  to  see. 

"  Why  are  you  looking  down  there  ?' 
Sang  two  young  larks  near  by  : 

"  We've  broken  the  shell  that  held  us, 
And  found  a  nest  on  high." 

And  the  happy  birds  went  singing 
Far  up  the  summer  sky  ! 

II. 

"  There's  a  little  mill  a-going, 

I  hear  its  whirr  again." 
"  No  ;  'tis  but  the  house-fly 

Buzzing  in  the  pane." 

"  Tis  not  a  fly,  but  a  fairy, 

Such  as  dance  in  magic  rings  ; 

A  wee,  elfish  miller, 

With  a  wheel  beneath  his  wings  ! 
84 


Children's  Songs. 

And  his  grist  is  the  sunshine 

Which  through  the  window  there 

Into  golden  meal  is  powdered, 
That  dances  in  the  air." 


III. 


"  I  hope  you'll  not  accuse  me, 

But  excuse  me," 

Said  the  simple  Bee  to  the  royal  red  Rose, 
"  If  I  take  a  pot  of  honey, 

And  don't  put  down  the  money, 
For,  alas,  I  haven't  any,  as  all  the  world  knows. 

"  Mister  Bee,  don't  worry, 

Nor  be  sorry," 

Said  the  queenly  Rose  to  the  poor,  yeoman  Bee  : 
"  You've  paid  me  for  my  honey 
Much  better  than  with  money 
In  the  sweet  songs  of  Summer  you  sing  and  sing 
to  me  !  " 

IV. 

Why  did  the  snow  keep  falling  ? 

What  did  the  March  winds  say  ? 
And  why,  when  Earth  was  a-flowering, 
Was  April  showering,  showering  ? 

I  know,  I  know  to-day. 

85 


Children's  Songs. 

The  apple  blossoms  have  told  me, 

And  the  twinkling  dew  on  the  spray, 
They  wanted  to  change  their  places, 
And,  putting  on  shining  faces, 
To  be  the  beautiful  May. 


V. 


"  Give  me  a  month,"  said  the  Summer, 

Demanding  of  Nature  a  boon, 
"  That  shall  make  surly  Winter  forgotten, 

And  be  with  all  sweet  things  in  tune. 

The  skies  must  be  blue,  the  Sun  golden, 

Love  must  light  the  white  lamp  of  the  Moon." 

The  great  Mother  smiled,  and  kissed  her, 
And  the  smile  and  the  kiss  were— June  ! 

VI. 

When  my  ships  come  home  from  sea, 
O  how  happy  I  shall  be  ! 
And  my  darling  children,  too, 
Lorimer,  and  Bess,  and  Sue  ; 
They  shall  share,  and  share  with  me, 
When  my  ships  come  home  from  sea. 

Lori  shall  have  a  silver  hoop, 
And  a  whistle  of  yellow  gold  ; 
86 


Children's  Songs. 

And,  every  marble  an  agate, 

More  marbles  than  he  can  hold, 
Never  a  boy  so  glad  as  he, 
When  my  ships  come  home  from  sea. 

And  what  shall  Bessie  have  ? 

A  comb  of  mother-of-pearl ; 
A  diamond  rose  to  light  up  her  hair, 
And  never  queen  alive  shall  wear 

Such  robes  as  my  sweet  girl ! 
Many's  the  kiss  she'll  give  to  me, 
When  my  ships  come  back  from  sea. 

Sarah  shall  have  a  Paris  doll, 

That  will  wink  with  a  knowing  air  ; 

And  dishes  of  old,  pink  China, 
And  such  a  love  of  a  chair ! 

O  how  happy  all  will  be 

When  my  ships  come  back  from  sea. 

When  will  my  ships  come  back  ? 

As  near  as  I  can  remember, 
When  the  rose  of  June  shall  be  blowing 

In  the  cold  winds  of  December  ; 

Or  when  the  snow  of  December 
Drifts  on  the  buds  of  June, 

At  twelve  o'clock  at  midday, 
Under  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Be  sure,  if  sleeping,  to  waken  me, 
For  then  my  Ships  "will  have  come  from  Sea  ! 
87 


FATHER    AND   CHILD. 

WE  sat  and  talked  together, 

My  little  boy  and  I ; 
It  was  changeful  April  weather, 

And  rain  was  in  the  sky. 
A  wintry  wind  was  blowing, 

The  sun  refused  to  shine ; 
This  set  his  tongue  a-going, 

As  if  the  fault  were  mine. 

"  You  are  the  Grossest  father 

(And  mother  says  so,  too), 
I  ever  had.     I'd  rather 

Have  none  at  all  than  you. 
You  said  I  might  go  walking, 

And  don't  do  what  you  say ; 
You  try  to  stop  my  talking, 

You  will  not  let  me  play. 

If  all  the  fathers  living 

Were  children,  you  would  see 
What  things  they  would  be  giving 

To  little  boys  like  me. 
You'd  get  me  all  I  needed, 

A  pair  of  gloves  and  cane, 
(There's  Sidney's  father,  he  did,) 

Besides  a  watch  and  chain. 
88 


Father  and  Child. 

It  always  makes  me  sorry 

Whenever  I  am  told 
That  I  am  only  Lori, 

And  only  eight  years  old  ; 
That  I  am  not  a  hundred, 

A  great,  big  man  like  you  : 
And  I  have  often  wondered 

What  I  would  be  and  do. 

No  father  to  compel  me 

To  do,  or  leave  undone, 
No  mother  then  to  tell  me 

I  was  a  naughty  son. 
I  want  to  grow  old  faster, 

I  hurry  all  I  can ; 
I'll  be  my  own  free  master 

When  I  become  a  man  !  " 

Forgetting  he  had  teased  me, 

I  smiled  at  what  he  said, 
For  something  in  it  pleased  me, 

Although  I  shook  my  head. 
I  said  :  "  You  are  mistaken, 

My  child,  in  thinking  so." 
With  confidence  unshaken 

He  stoutly  answered,  "  No." 

"  My  boy,  I  can  remember 
When  I  was  young,  I  say ; 
89 


Father  and  Child. 

For  though  in  Life's  December, 
My  heart  is  true  to  May. 

Before  I  was  a  father 
I  was  a  child,  you  see. 

If  you  were  me,  you'd  rather 
Be  you,  my  dear,  than  me. 

No  father's  hand  caressed  me, 

I  knew  no  father's  love  ; 
If  when  he  died  he  blessed  me 

Is  only  known  above. 
Somewhere  in  ocean,  may  be — 

I  know  not — he  may  rest, 
For  I  was  but  a  baby 

Upon  my  mother's  breast. 

My  childhood  was  not  pleasant, 

For,  unlike  you,  my  boy, 
I  never  had  a  present, 

And  never  bought  a  toy. 
Yet,  hard  as  this  seems,  Lori, 

I  felt  so  little  pain, 
I  would  be  glad,  not  sorry, 

To  be  that  child  again. 

When  I  am  worn  and  weary, 
And  I  am  both  to-day, 

For  everything  looks  dreary, 
And  mother  is  away ; 
90 


Our  Fathers. 

And  strange,  new  troubles  gather, 
And  my  poor  head  is  wild — 

I  am  sick  of  playing  Father, 
I  want  to  be  the  Child  !  " 


OUR  FATHERS. 

HERE  where  our  fathers  worshipped  in  the  Past, 
And  where  their  children  worship  now,  we  come, 
With  reverent  spirit,  as  befits  the  place, 
The  house  they  builded  for  their  heavenly  needs, 
On  this  green  hill,  two  hundred  years  ago. 
Averse  from  ceremonious  forms  and  rites, 
They  left  their  dear,  ancestral  homes,  the  graves 
Wherein  the  ashes  of  their  dead  reposed. 
They  crossed  a  thousand  stormy  leagues  of  sea, 
Bearing  the  best  of  England  in  their  breasts, 
And  planted  the  New  World  in  the  wilderness. 
Masterful  men,  but  narrow,  quick  to  do 
The  work  that  seemed  appointed  to  their  hands ; 
Content  with  little  pleasures,  or  with  none  ; 
Not  troubled  with  unprofitable  thoughts  ; 
Of  one  thing  sure — that  God  would  judge  them  all. 
Their  sturdy  virtues  were  the  corner-stone 
Whereon  were  set  the  pillars  of  the  State. 
Their  lives  were  hard.     They  tilled  the  stubborn 
soil, 


Our  Fathers. 

Beset  with  peril  from  their  savage  foes, 
Or  ploughed  the  windy  furrows  of  the  deep, 
Under  the  Pole  Star  or  the  Southern  Cross, 
Adventurous,  resolute,  their  creed  summed  up 
In  the  right  to  worship  God  in  their  own  wtiy, 
And  not  as  priests  ordain.     They  had  it  here. 
Here,    where    their    marriage-vows    were    inter 
changed, 

Their  children  were  baptized,  and  where  at  last, 
When  the  long  pilgrimage  of  life  was  done, 
The   mourners  bore  their  bodies.     Graves  were 

dug 

On  the  green  hillside,  where  their  fathers  slept, 
And  they  were  buried  there  with  many  tears, 
With  homely  headstones,   carved  with  cherubs' 

wings, 

And  under  these  the  years  of  birth  and  death, 
And  pious  texts  of  Scripture,  which  declared 
That,  dying  in  the  Lord,  the  dead  were  blessed  ; 
For  there  remains  a  rest  for  them,  a  house 
Not  built  with  hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens. 
Such  hope,  such  certainty,  our  fathers  had  ; 
Such  hope,  such  certainty,  such  rest  be  ours. 


92 


THOUGHTS   FOR  THANKSGIVING. 

IF  gracious  smiles  are  met  with  smiles, 

And  who  would  meet  them  otherwise  ? 
And  tender  words  persuade  the  heart, 
Till  tears,  kept  back,  unbidden  start 
In  dry  and  unfamiliar  eyes  : 

If  acts  of  courtesy  like  these, 
The  common  coin  of  every  day, 

Pass  current  everywhere,  and  make 

So  many  richer  for  their  sake, 

For  none  can  be  too  poor  to  pay  : 

What  shall  be,  can  be,  said  for  those 

Who  greater  gifts  their  whole  lives  long 
Receive  without  acknowledgment, 
Receive,  perhaps,  with  discontent, 
Without  a  thankful  word,  or  song  ? 

Time  was  they  were  not,  now  they  are  ; 

A  Power  by  them  unseen,  unknown, 
Produced  them,  not  to  die  like  flowers, 
Poor  pensioners  of  summer  hours, 

For  they  remain,  though  years  are  flown. 

93 


Thoughts  for  Thanksgiving. 

From  nothingness  to  conscious  Life, 

That  feels  itself  if  nought  beside, 
And  straightway  all  it  sees  demands, 
Perpetually  puts  forth  its  hands 

To  take,  and  will  not  be  denied  ; 

That  such  a  creature,  selfish,  frail, 

One-half  whose  days  are  passed  in  sleep, 

Watched  over  by  maternal  eyes, 

Which,  when  its  small  breath  comes  in  sighs, 
Tremble,  and  ready  are  to  weep  : 

That  childhood  should  in  manhood  end 
Is  strange  as  childhood  just  begun. 

Why  did  he  live  ?     He  might  have  died. 

What  made  Death's  arrows  glance  aside  ? 
The  Power  of  Life  and  Death  in  one. 

This  he  perceives  not,  or  forgets, 

For  now  because  he  lived  he  lives  ; 
He  has  his  raiment,  and  his  food, 
Accepts  what  comes,  and  finds  it  good, 
And  never  thinks  of  Him  who  gives. 

Something  he  sought  he  may  have  missed, 

Or  in  his  heart,  or  in  his  brain  ; 
Fame,  power,  wealth,  love.      If  so,  what  then  ? 
Blot  all  these  from  the  lives  of  men, 

Still  Man,  and  Life,  and  Earth  remain. 
94 


Thoughts  for  Thanksgiving. 

The  sun  still  rises  as  of  gold  ; 

The  stars  and  planets  shine  on  high  ; 
The  great  Sea  laughs  ;  clouds  come  and  go  ; 
Rains  fall ;  birds  sing  ;  the  sweet  flowers  blow  ; 

And  fragrant  is  the  west  wind's  sigh. 

O  Earth,  thou  art  a  goodly  world  ! 

And  who  deny,  if  such  there  be, 
The  Power  that  placed  them  here,  should  own, 
Thou  Symbol  of  that  Power  Unknown, 

Their  endless  gratitude  to  thee  ! 

They  breathe  the  airs  that  stir  thy  trees  ; 

Thy  sunshine  is  their  constant  light  ; 
Without  thy  harvests  they  would  die, 
Their  sustenance  and  sole  supply  ; 

They  lie,  and  slumber  in  thy  Night. 

But  say  thou  art  no  more,  O  Earth  ! 

Than  we  behold  from  day  to  day, 
An  Inn,  we  travellers,  thou  at  least 
Hast  spread  us  many  a  bounteous  feast 

And  comforted  upon  the  way  ! 

We  thank  thee,  and  through  thee  the  Host, 

Who  has  provided  of  His  best, 
And  housed  us  so  we  hate  to  go  ; 
For  we  can  never  hope  to  know 

More  watchful  care,  more  perfect  rest. 

95 


DECORATION    DAY. 

I  WALKED  the  streets  at  midnight, 
But  my  thoughts  were  far  away  ; 

For  my  leaf  of  life  now  withered 
Was  green  again  with  May. 

The  snows  of  twenty  winters 
Had  vanished  from  my  brow, 

And  I, — ah  me, — looked  forward, 
As  I  look  backward  now. 

Why  should  I  not  look  forward  ? 

I  knew  my  soul  was  strong  ; 
I  knew  there  was  within  me 

The  might  there  is  in  Song. 

My  heart  was  light  and  friendly, 

I  loved  my  fellow-men, 
And  I  loved — how  much — my  comrades, 

For  I  had  comrades  then. 

Where  are  those  dear  old  fellows  ? 

Ah,  whither  have  they  flown  ? 
I  asked  myself  at  midnight. 

As  I  walked  the  streets  alone. 
96 


Decoration  Day. 

There  was  Fitz,  the  Irish  singer, 
And  Fred,  the  tender  heart, 

And  Harry,  who  lived  for  Woman, 
And  Tom,  who  lived  for  Art. 

Poor  Fitz's  song  is  over, 
And  the  heart  of  Fred  is  still ; 

One  went  down  at  Yorktown, 
The  other  at  Malvern  Hill. 

Wrapt  in  the  blue  they  fought  in, 
They  buried  them  where  they  lay  ; 

And  elsewhere  Tom  and  Harry, 
Who  wore,  poor  lads,  the  gray. 

As  I  walked  the  streets  at  midnight, 
And  remembered  the  awful  years 

That  snatched  my  comrades  from  me, 
My  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

I  thought  of  bloody  battles, 
Where  thousands  such  as  they 

Had  met  and  killed  each  other 

For  wearing  the  blue  and  the  gray. 

Of  happy  homes  that  were  darkened, 
Of  hearths  that  were  desolate, 

Of  tender  hearts  that  were  broken, 

Of  love  that  was  turned  to  hate. 

97 


Decoration  Day. 

I  pitied  the  wretched  living, 

I  think  I  did  the  dead  ; 
I  know  I  sighed  for  Harry, 

And  dropped  a  tear  for  Fred. 

"  Poor  boys  !  "  I  said.     But  pondering 
What  was,  and  might  have  been 

(What  I  am  in  the  sere  leaf, 
And  they  were  in  the  green). 

I  pitied  my  dead  no  longer  ; 

I  did  not  dare  to.     No. 
They  went  when  they  were  summoned, 

Before,  they  could  not  go. 

When  we  know  what  Life  and  Death  are, 
We  shall  then  know  which  is  best  ; 

Meanwhile  we  live  and  labor  : 
Their  labor  done,  they  rest. 

The  earth  lies  heavy  on  them, 

But  they  do  not  complain  ; 
They  do  not  miss  the  sunshine, 

They  do  not  feel  the  rain. 

If  they  are  ever  conscious, 

In  that  long  sleep  of  theirs, 
It  is  when,  past  the  winter, 

We  feel  the  first  spring  airs. 
98 


Hair  of  Washington. 

When  the  birds  from  tropic  countries 

Come  back  again  to  ours, 
And  where  of  late  were  snow-drifts, 

The  grass  is  thick  with  flowers  ; 

Such  flowers  as  will  to-morrow 
Be  scattered  where  they  lie, 

The  blue  and  gray  together, 
Beneath  the  same  sweet  sky. 

No  stain  upon  their  manhood, 

No  memory  of  the  Past, 
Except  the  common  valor 

That  made  us  One  at  last. 


HAIR  OF  WASHINGTON. 

THE  relics  of  the  great 

Who  by  the  sword  or  pen 
Create  or  save  the  State 

Should  precious  be  to  men  ; 
Preserved  and  reverenced  long 

For  every  deed  they  wrought 
That  lessened  human  wrong, 

And  broadened  human  thought. 

Sacred  to  me  the  shred 
Of  thin,  white  hair  I  hold, 
99 


To  Mary  Bradley. 

• 

Cut  from  a  great  man's  head 
When  he  in  death  was  cold 

Of  English  blood,  he  rose 
Superior  to  his  race, 

For,  when  he  might,  he  chose 
Nor  rich  reward,  nor  place. 

Steadfast  for  all  the  sword 

Of  Sidney,  Milton's  pen, 
Established,  or  restored, 

More  potent  now  than  then. 
Of  all  my  relics  chief, 

Preserve  his  just  renown, 
Outlast  the  latest  leaf 

Of  Caesar's  laurel  crown. 


TO   MARY   BRADLEY. 

I  SHALL  behold,  I  hope  I  shall  behold 

Before  the  rainfall  of  to-morrow  night, 

A  woman  loved  of  old,  who  is  not  old, 

To  whom  before  I  was  my  heart  was  plight. 

My  name  with  hers  in  Fate's  great  book  enrolled, 

Shines,  as  it  ought  to,  in  supernal  light, 

Twins,  slumbering,  smiling,  on  the  arm  of  might, 

The  mystery  of  our  being  still  untold. 

100 


To  William  James  Lint  on. 

I  know  this  woman — no  one  half  so  well — 
Your  love  as  well  as  mine,  diviner  Powers  ! 
Whose  currents,  shifting  always,  seldom  vary  ; 
For  she  was  born  beneath  a  gracious  spell, 
Somewhere  and  somehow  in  the  countless  hours 
Before  I  Richard  was,  or  she  was  Mary  ! 


TO  WILLIAM   JAMES   LINTON. 

MY  dear  friend,  Linton,  if  your  purpose  hold, 
And  adverse  fates  at  last  propitious  be, 
You  must  be  plunging  through  the  starless  sea 
Between  your  world  and  ours,  which  is  more  old  ; 
Weltering,  I  fear,  where  stormy  waves  are  rolled. 
And  Arctic  icebergs  Spring  has  now  set  free, 
Out  of  the  darkness  slowly  drift  a-lee, 
Freighted,  like  life,  with  death's  eternal  cold. 
But  why  should  this  foreboding  heart  of  mine 
Create  disasters  for  you  ?     Why  deplore 
What  the  long  leagues  of  tempest-battered  shore 
May  never  swallow  in  their  yeasty  brine  ? 
What  said  Sir  Humphrey,  tiller-ropes  in  hand  ? 
"  Heaven  is  as  near  by  water  as  by  land." 


101 


At  Washington. 


AT  A   DINNER   OF  ARTISTS. 

SITTING  beside  you  in  these  halls  to-night, 
Begirt  with  kindly  faces  known  so  long, 
My  heart  is  heavy  though  my  words  are  light, 
So  strangely  sad  and  sweet  are  art  and  song. 
Twin  sisters,  they,  at  once  both  bright  and  dark, 
Clinging  to  coming  hours  and  days  gone  by, 
When  hope  was  jubilant  as  a  morning  lark, 
And  memory  silent  as  the  evening  sky. 
Where  are  the  dear  companions,  yours  and  mine, 
Whom  for  one  little  hour  these  walls  restore, 
Courteous  and  gracious,  of  a  noble  line, 
And  happy  times  that  will  return  no  more  ? 
Farewell  and  hail !     We  come  and  we  depart  : 
I,  with  my  song  (ah  me  !),  you,  with  your  art. 


AT   WASHINGTON. 

WHAT  constitutes  a  State  ?     Not  arms,  nor  arts, 
Stout  sinews,  nor  the  will  that  makes  them  strong  ; 
It  is  upbuilded  in  heroic  hearts, 
Self-circling  from  a  more  than  spheral  song. 
Before  it,  like  light  clouds,  the  years  disperse, 
Parting  to-day  above  this  stately  dome, 
102 


Moriturum  Sahitamus. 

Within  whose  pillared  halls  the  hours  rehearse 
More  tragic  issues  than  dispeopled  Rome. 
Behold  yon  marble  shaft  that  cleaves  the  skies, 
Far-seen  beyond  the  circuit  of  the  hills  ; 
And  gathered  here  a  host  with  reverent  eyes, 
Whose  depths,  unsunned,  the  light  of  freedom  fills, 
And  he  whom  these  have  chosen — if  not  great, 
Great  through  their  choice,  who  were,  and  are,  the 
State. 


MORITURUM  SALUTAMUS. 

IT  is  most  fitting  he  should  pass  away, 
As  he  is  passing  now  without  a  word, 
This  man  of  many  battles,  whom  Dismay 
Dismayed   not,   whose    stout  heart  was   seldom 

stirred. 

Master  of  his  emotions — not  too  keen, 
Of  simple,  primitive  tastes,  his  wants  were  few ; 
Believer  only  in  things  known  and  seen, 
Stubborn  and  blunt,  begotten  to  subdue. 
Not  his  the  blood  in  Sidney's  veins  which  ran, 
Nor  his  who  fell  at  Roncesvalles  of  old  ; 
But  there  is  something  in  this  silent  man, 
Something  heroic  in  his  rugged  mould. 
Of  this  our  Soldier  dying  Time  will  be 
A  kinder,  sterner,  juster  judge  than  we. 
103 


The  Crossing  of  the  Ways. 


ON    HEARING    THE    SECOND    CATAR 
ACT. 

WHEN  I  was  young — ah,  distant  when — 

And  just  began  to  hold  my  pen, 

My  head  obeyed  my  tardy  hand, 

Submissive  to  its  least  command  ; 

But  now  that  I  have  older  grown, 

And  more  of  other  authors  known, 

I  understand  how  Milton  wrote 

With  younger  fingers  than  his  own 

The  Fall  of  Man — the  tragic  note 

That  struggled  through  Samson's  rugged  lines, 

Blind,  like  himself,  among  the  Philistines. 


THE  CROSSING  OF  THE  WAYS. 

(John  Eliot  Bowen.) 

DID  I  see  it,  or  does  it  seem, 
In  some  world  of  classic  dream  ? 
Who  knows  this  is  more  wise  than  I, 
It  was  so  distant,  is  so  nigh. 
Where  ruined  tombs  and  temples  stand, 
In  a  many-peopled  land, 
104 


The  Crossing  of  the  Ways. 

Where  are  coming,  going  ways, 
Where  many  haste,  but  no  one  stays, 
Toward  which  a  man  with  eager  gaze 
Urges  forward,  fair  and  fleet, 
With  gold  sandals  on  his  feet  : 
I  dream  of  him  by  night  and  day, 
At  once  so  serious  and  gay, 
Leaves  of  November,  buds  of  May, 
Wreathed  with  myrtle,  crowned  with  bay  ; 
Two  natures  in  him,  gentle,  bold, 
Affections  young,  but  judgment  old, 
Over  him  their  light  and  shadow  plays, 
As  he  nears  the  crossing  of  the  ways. 
But  who  are  These,  that  fast,  or  slow, 
Seem  now  to  come,  and  now  to  go  ? 
One  stealing  silently  along, 
The  other  marching  with  bursts  of  song  ; 
One  clad  in  a  waving,  yellosv  robe, 
Such  as  Summer  all  over  the  globe 
Wears  at  the  earliest  flush  of  June, 
When  the  hearts  of  all  things  are  in  tune. 
But  the  other,  that  ominous  other, 
Twinned  of  the  same  great  Mother, 
Why  differs  he  so  from  his  brother  ? 
Visions  and  apparitions  fly, 
Here  before  them,  and  there  behind, 
Those  to  loosen,  and  these  to  bind, 
As  the  hours  delay,  and  the  days  go  by. 
Each  bravely  holds  aloft  his  torch, 
105 


At  Concord. 

That  lights  the  tombs,  and  a  temple-porch. 
But  now  that  they  reach  the  altar, 
And  stand  by  the  sacred  fires, 
The  bride  and  the  groom  both  falter, 
For  the  flame  of  one  torch  expires. 
What  more  ?     In  my  dream  remains 
The  end  of  my  friend — not  my  pains. 
He  is  gone  ;  he  will  not  return  ; 
Nothing  left  us  here  but — an  Urn. 


AT  CONCORD. 

BLOWN  round  the  stormy  Capes, 
And  in  along  the  Sound, 
Haunted  by  shadows,  or  shapes, 
Out  of  the  night  profound 
The  Muse  of  the  New  World  came 
With  wings  and  sandals  of  fire, 
Flashed  hither  like  sunset  flame, 
Or  the  lightning  speed  of  desire, 
Rushing  along  on  a  wind  of  song 
From  the  weary  waste  of  the  sea, 
To  me,  who  have  worshipped  her  long- 
O  why  hath  she  come  to  me  ? 
Because  the  Angel  of  Fate, 
Whose  name  is  also  Death, 
Passing  from  east  to  west, 
106 


At  Concord. 

Its  secret  errand  not  guessed, 

In  impious  pride  elate, 

Laid  violent  hands  on  the  great, 

And  plucked  from  his  hoary  head 

The  crowns  of  the  world  whose  breath 

Is  heavy  with  eastern  blooms, 

That  swoon  with  their  own  perfumes, 

And  those  that  rise  under  western  skies, 

Out  of  the  Isles  of  the  Blest, 

With  promise  of  endless  rest, 

Such  as  fills  the  sacred  breast 

Of  this  great,  good  man  who  is  dead. 

With  heads  bent  down,  and  slow, 
Where  to-day  do  ye  go, 
People  of  Concord,  and  why 
Are  those  tears  unshed  in  the  eye 
Of  man,  and  woman,  and  child, 
That  follow  like  souls  exiled  ? 
But  who  and  what  do  they  follow 
To  that  grave  in  Sleepy  Hollow, 
Fresh  dug  in  the  warm,  rich  ground, 
Where  flowers  will  soon  abound, 
Roses,  violets — all 
That  the  Mother's  hands  let  fall, 
Scattering  dew  on  the  sod 
Where  his  feet  so  often  have  trod, 
Before  the  clouds  on  his  soul 
Began  to  gather,  and  roll, 
107 


At  Concord. 

And  the  iron  bell  to  toll  ? 

What  is  that  clamor  of  thine, 

O  Bell  !  that  art  sounding  afar, 

Like  a  cry  flung  down  from  a  star — 

Hearken — "  Seventy -nine  !  " 

A  great  many  years  to  live 

Where  all  is  so  fugitive. 

He  came  of  a  clerical  stock 

For  eight  long  generations, 

Which  stood  as  firm  as  a  rock 

In  the  anger  of  battling  nations. 
His  grandsire  marched  with  his  flock 
On  that  famous  April  morn 
When  the   Old   World  died,   and   the  New  was 

born — 

There,  over  yon  rustic  bridge, 
Posted  before  the  western  ridge 
On  the  bank  of  the  river,  full-fledged  with  pines, 
Where  aslant  on  their  needles  the  morning  shines, 
And  where,  by  a  night's  swift  march,  there  came, 
Smoke  their  vanguard,  their  rearguard  Flame — 
Veterans  of  Wolfe,  and  Maryborough, 
Who  fought  their  way  through  the  Countries  Low. 
At  Blenheim,  Ramillies,  Malplaquet, 
Who  looked  on  warfare  as  manly  play — 
With  banners  ablaze,  like  summer  noons, 
Fifers  playing  the  merriest  tunes, 
Tired  foot-soldiers,  mounted  dragoons, 
Eight  hundred  strong,  till  the  stern  word  Halt 
108 


At  Concord. 

Arrests  them  on  the  bridge  at  fault, 
For  they  dare  not  retreat,  and  dare  not  assault. 
"  Men  of  Concord,"  the  preacher  cried, 
Bible  in  hand,  and  son  by  his  side, 
"Stand."     They   stood.     "They   shall    not  ad 
vance." 

The  light  of  his  eye  was  a  brandished  lance. 
"  Make  ready,  Present"     Then,  at  the  word, 
"  It  is  not  I  who  speak,  but  the  Lord — 
FIRE  !  "     The  varlets  were  soon  on  the  run, 
Scouring  the  road  to  Lexington, 
Their  proud  crests  sunken,  their  banners  furled — 
Scared  by  the  shot  heard  round  the  world  ! 
That  a  race  like  this  should  baffle  their  king, 
Stout  fighters  all,  was  a  foregone  thing. 
A  hundred  and  forty  years  before 
They  had  settled  the  place,  which  then  was  a  wild, 
Begirt  with  wigwams,  at  whose  door, 
Bow  in  hand,  and  arrow  thereon, 
(Like  the  disk  and  light  of  the  sun), 
Stood  the  savage,  and  grimly  smiled 
At  the  pale-faced  strangers,  who  were  not  afraid, 
For  they  straightway  builded  a  strong  stockade, 
That  shut  their  foes  out,  and  shut  in 
Their  wives  and  daughters,  famine-thin, 
Shaking  with  agues,  with  fevers  down, 
But  stubbornly  bent  to  found  the  town. 
And  they  did.     For  when  such  races  meet, 
Not  strongest  hands,  nor  swiftest  feet, 
109 


At  Concord. 

Nor  all  the  useless  blood  they  shed, 
Determines  which  shall  lose  or  win, 
For  victory,  when  they  begin, 
Selects  the  white  race — not  the  red. 
It  conquers  here,  nor  all  by  blows, 
But  half  by  the  subtle  craft  of  its  foes  : 
It  tracks  them  as  they  track  the  bear, 
Under  their  feet  a  constant  snare, 
And  with  a  speed  that  never  fails 
Pursues  them  on  their  viewless  trails  ; 
Conies  without  warning,  far  off  is  nigh, 
Gone  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye — 
What  can  the  red  men  do  but  die  ? 
Children  of  Nature,  which  no  more 
Shelters  and  saves  them,  they  transfer 
To  the  wits  they  sharpen  all  the  lore 
That  they  contrived  to  wrest  from  her  : 
Motions  of  spring  under  winter  snow, 
What  happens  when  certain  birds  fly  low, 
Where  squirrels  conceal  their  nests,  and  bees 
Deposit  their  honey  in  hollow  trees  ; 
Promise  of  winds,  when  wind  is  none, 
As  this  or  that  way  rushes  bend  ; 
Presage  of  clouds,  and  moon,  and  sun, 
And  what  the  Northern  Lights  portend. 
Secrets  of  the  Solar  Year 
Became  the  birthright  of  our  seer, 
With  what  the  fearless  scholar  finds 
In  cosmic  myths,  which  primitive  minds 
no 


At  Concord. 

Writ  large,  but  with  an  earlier  pen 
Than  chronicled  the  deeds  of  men  ; 
Scriptures  of  races,  old  and  new, 
The  Hebrew  prophet,  the  rapt  Hindu  ; 
And  what  with  Hesiod,  Homer  began — 
Mutable  gods,  with  passions  of  man  ; 
The  cunning  that  shaped  the  Doric  frieze, 
The  grace  and  greatness  of  Pericles, 
Socratic  question,  Platonic  dream, 
What  hallowed  the  grove  of  Academe, 
With  what  the  Christian  Fathers  said, 
(Greatest  of  dead,  which  are  not  dead), 
Saints  Chrysostom  and  Augustine, 
And  the  Roman  of  imperious  line — 
The  Marcus  we  call  Antonine  ; 
All  to  this  wise  man  was  clear, 
All  to  this  great  man  was  dear  : 
Was — but  is  not ;  for  to-day 
He  has  gone  upon  his  way, 
As  the  Masters  went  before, 
And  will  be  with  us  no  more. 

He  has  earned  the  right  to  rest, 
And  we  should  be  comforted  ; 
For  the  simple  life  he  led, 
And  the  love  that  he  professed 
For  all  wisdom — are  not  dead. 
Spirits  such  as  his  remain 
In  the  noble  things  they  wrought, 
in 


At  Roslyn. 

Whereof  the  whole  to  men  belong  ; 
His,  in  grave  and  gracious  thought, 
And  in  the  high  poetic  strain 
That  is  the  burden  of  his  Song. 


AT   ROSLYN. 

(November  3,  1884.) 

WHEN  poets  touch  the  heart,  they  touch 
To  finer  issues  than  the  brain 
Conceives  of  either  joy  or  pain ; 

And  their  sweet  influence  is  such 
As  comes  to  buds  with  vernal  rain. 

Sculpture  may  satisfy  the  eye 

With  lines  of  grandeur  or  of  grace  ; 
Painting  restore  the  hour,  the  place, 

Wrhen  tranced  with  wood,  or  wave,  or  sky, 
We  stood  with  Nature  face  to  face. 

And  Music — all  that  spells  of  sound, 
Enamoured  of  melodious  speech, 
Rejoice  in,  calling,  answering  each, 

Music  may  bring  ;  but  more  profound 
Than  these  the  arts  that  poets  teach. 
112 


At  Roslyn. 

Their  Art  is  Nature.     They  divine 
Her  secrets,  and  to  man  disclose  ; 
They  taught,  or  teach,  him  all  he  knows, 

First,  last,  of  the  prophetic  line, 
And  what  he  is,  and  where  he  goes. 

Of  many  men  and  many  things 

Forgetful,  priests  that  shape  his  creed, 
Stout  men-at-arms  that  make  him  bleed, 

He  still  remembers  him  who  sings, 
Who  was,  and  is,  his  friend  indeed-. 

Green  was  the  laurel  Caesar  wore, 
But  Virgil's  wreath  is  greener  now 
Than  Caesar's  ;  that  imperial  brow 

Is  balder  than  it  was  before, 
Powerless  ;  but,  Horace,  not  so  thou. 

A  Queen  and  player  both  drew  breath 
In  good  old  England's  golden  prime  : 
To-day  the  sovereign  of  that  time 

Is  Shakespeare,  not  Elizabeth, 

Not  Tudor,  but  his  powerful  rhyme. 

What  homage  shall  we  offer  these, 

Our  Masters,  and  their  deathless  song? 
Pay  them  the  honors  that  belong 

To  founders  of  great  dynasties 

The  strong  hands  that  destroy  the  strong  ; 

"3 


At  Roslyn. 

Build  monuments  to  them  beside 

Earth's  mighty  ones,  theirs  mightiest ; 
Visit  the  spots  that  knew  them  best, 

The  houses  where  they  lived  and  died, 
The  graves  wherein  their  ashes  rest. 

Master  !  The  monument  we  raise 
Is  other  than  these  piles  of  stone. 
Builded  by  Nature's  hands  alone, 

Before  thee  all  thy  length  of  days, 
'Tis  near  thee  now  that  thou  art  gone. 

Poet  of  Nature  !     Thou  to  her 
Wast  dearest  of  this  Western  race  ; 
And  she  whom  thou  wast  first  to  trace, 

Discoverer  and  worshipper — 
She  folded  thee  in  her  embrace  ! 

A  child,  she  led  thee  hand  in  hand, 
To  watch  the  grassy  rivulet  flow, 
Where  still  the  yellow  violets  grow, 

And  still  the  tall  old  forests  stand, 
Though  that  was  ninety  years  ago. 

What  monument  so  fit  as  these, 
Which  never  from  their  poet's  heart 
Were  absent — in  the  noisy  mart, 

Or  in  strange  lands  beyond  the  seas, 
Where  still  he  walked  with  them  apart  ? 
114 


The  Judgment  of  Solomon. 

Bring  these  !     O  bring  the  forest  trees 
From  Cummington  to  Roslyn  now  ! 
He  would  be  glad  to  know  they  bow 

Above  him  in  the  summer  breeze, 
And  have  their  shadows  on  his  brow. 

Memorial  in  Cathedral  vast 
He  needeth  none,  nor  requiem,  save 
The  music  of  the  wind  and  wave  ; 

Least  such  a  song  as  this  I  cast 
Like  a  poor  wild  flower  on  his  grave. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON. 

ONCE  on  a  time,  when  he  was  growing  old, 
Albeit  there  was  no  sign  of  age  in  him, 
Except  his  snowy  beard,  King  Solomon 
Sat  deeply  meditating  on  his  throne, 
His  magic  throne,  which  bore  him  where  he  would, 
Winged  like  a  planet.     On  a  mountain-peak, 
Which  overlooked  the  long  Iranian  plain, 
And  many-citied  kingdoms  of  the  Ind, 
It  stood,  like  morn  re-risen  in  the  east, 
Seen  by  the  people  over  whom  it  shone, 
And  seen  of  every  creature  of  the  earth, 
Which  gathered  from  all  quarters  of  the  earth, 
Commanded  thither  by  the  powerful  word 

"5 


The  judgment  of  Solomon. 

Of  their  imperious  master,  Solomon, 
Whom  the  four  angels  of  the  land  and  sea 
Had  given  dominion  over  them  and  theirs, 
That  they  should  honor  him  and  do  his  will, 
And  who,  moreover,  understood  their  speech, 
And  could  converse  with  them,  so  wise  was  he. 
Surrounded  there  by  these  that  summer  day 
He  sat,  and  over  him  the  birds  of  heaven 
Hung  motionless,  a  living  canopy 
That  shut  out  the  fierce  sunlight ;  also  came 
And  ministered  to  him  the  winds  of  heaven, 
They,  or  the  angels  who  ruled  over  them, 
Diverse  in  kind,  but  strangely  beautiful, 
As  when  with  their  innumerable  wings 
He  first  beheld  them  in  Jerusalem. 
The  populous  kingdoms  of  the  earth  and  air, 
Below,  above,  about  him,  troubled  him, 
Troubled  him  because  he  understood  their  speech, 
Their  habits,  passions,  everything  they  were, 
What  life  was  to  them,  and  how  short  it  was, 
And,  whether  long  or  short,  how  certain  death. 
The  solemn  thought  of  their  mortality, 
And,  it  may  be,  his  own,  which  all  that  day 
Was  present  with  him,  an  unwelcome  guest, 
The  more  unwelcome  as  he  grew  more  old, 
Darkened  the  loving  heart  of  Solomon, 
Darkened  his  soul,  till,  lifting  up  his  eyes, 
He  saw  a  mist  which  slowly  shaped  itself, 
Or  seemed  to  shape,  into  an  odorous  cloud, 
116 


Tf}e  Judgment  of  Solomon. 

Which  rose  before  him,  and  from  out  the  cloud 
There  reached  a  hand  that  held  a  crystal  cup, 
Filled  with  strange  water,  clearer  than  the  cup  ; 
And  sweeter  than  all  music  spake  a  voice, 
Saying  :  "  The  Maker  of  the  Universe — 
His  Name  and  Power  be  honored,  glorified, 
Hath  sent  me  with  this  cup,  wherein  thou  seest 
The  waters  of  youth  and  everlasting  life. 
Choose  freely  whether  thou  wilt  or  wilt  not  drink, 
This  draught  of  youth  and  everlasting  life. 
Think,  wilt  thou  be  immortal  through  all  time, 
Or  live  and  die  like  other  men  ?     I  wait." 
Deep  silence  brooded  over  all  the  Place 
When  the  Voice  ceased,  and  Solomon  communed 
Within  himself  upon  the  thing  he  heard. 
Firm  as  a  pillar  stood  the  odorous  cloud, 
And  the  white  hand  reached  out  the  diamond  cup, 
"  Surely,"  he  thought,  "  the  gold  of  life  is  good 
To  spend  in  the  great  market  of  the  world  ; 
Fruitful  the  soil  of  life,  wherein  to  plant 
The  stately  palms  of  power,  the  flowers  of  love  ; 
But  joyless  is  the  dark  repose  of  death." 
Thus  he,  within  the  silence  of  his  thoughts 
Debating  life  and  death.     "  Before  I  drink 
I  will  take  other  counsel  than  mine  own  ; 
For  though  men  call  me  wise,  I  know  myself 
Foolish  at  times — I  think  more  foolish  now 
That  age  hath  come  on  me."     He  summoned  then 
All  spirits  which  were  subject  to  his  charge, 
117 


The  Judgment  of  Solomon. 

The  angels  of  the  winds  and  of  the  seas, 
The  birds  of  heaven,  the  creatures  of  the  earth, 
The  souls  of  wise  men  dead  before  he  lived, 
And  speaking  to  them  in  their  several  tongues, 
Demanded  they  should  tell  him,  if  they  knew, 
Whether,  indeed,  it  would  be  wise  in  him 
To  drain  the  cup  of  everlasting  life, 
Or  let  it  go,  and  die  like  other  men. 
Then,  like  the  voices  of  a  thousand  streams 
Which  are  one  voice,  the  countless  multitude 
Straightway  entreated  him  to  drain  the  cup, 
Seeing  that  the  welfare  of  the  world  was  laid 
Upon  his  wisdom,  as  upon  the  hills, 
That  hold  up  the  high  heavens.     And,  further 
more, 

The  happiness  of  all  things  was  sustained 
By  the  perfected  circle  of  his  life, 
Set  like  a  jewel  in  a  golden  ring, 
The  precious  jewel  in  his  signet-ring, 
Which  was  the  Incommunicable  Name. 
He  hearkened  to  their  voices,  hearkening  more 
To  the  unspoken  longing  in  his  heart, 
Of  which  they  were  the  answer  ;  then,  resolved, 
Stretched  forth  his  hand  and  took  the  shining  cup. 
Whereat  the  hand  that  gave  it  into  his, 
Tempting,  withdrew  into  the  pillared  cloud. 
Wondrous  the  lights  within  the  water  were, 
Which  water  was  no  longer,  but  a  wine 
The  like  whereof  no  mortal  ever  saw, 
118 


The  Judgment  of  Solomon. 

Not  pressed  from  earthly  clusters  such  as  grew 
In  his  walled  garden  of  Jerusalem — 
Vintage  of  heaven,  its  rare  aroma  stole, 
Like  the  remembered  music  of  a  dream, 
Through  all  his  senses,  yearning  with  delight. 
And,  lo !  from  out  its  living  depths  a  flame 
Flashed  suddenly  up,  and  flushed  his  royal  face, 
Prophetic  promise  of  returning  Youth. 
He  would  have  drank,  but  something  stayed  his 

hand, 

Some  dark  foreboding  that  he  had  not  done 
All  that  a  wise  man  should  to  know  the  truth. 
Perhaps  he  had  misheard  the  unknown  voice 
That  spake  from  out  the  cloud — the  words  were 

strange  ; 

Perhaps  his  wily  servants  flattered  him, 
Puffed  up  with  self-importance.     He  would  see. 
"  O  ye,"  he  cried,  "  who  minister  to  me, 
Spirits,  and  men,  and  creatures  of  the  earth, 
Tell  me  if  there  be  any  absent  now, 
Many,  or  one,  for  I  commanded  all 
To  meet  me  here  at  noon."     And  they  replied, 
Bowing  before  the  might  of  Solomon, 
"  Master,  the  only  one  who  is  not  here 
Is  that  most  loving  of  all  living  things, 
Whom  all  things  love,  the  wild  dove  Boutimar." 
The  Lord  of  Learning  sent  a  golden  bird, 
A  marvellous  gift  from  Sheba's  beauteous  Queen, 
To  find  and  fetch  the  wild  dove  Boutimar 
119 


The  Judgment  of  Solomon. 

From  where  her  nest  was  builded  on  the  roof 
Of  the  great  Temple  of  Jerusalem. 
The  glory  of  the  reign  of  Solomon. 
"  O  dove,"  he  said,  while  she  was  still  afar, 
"  Wild  dove  that  dwellest  in  the  clefts  of  rocks. 
Or  in  the  hiding-places  of  the  wood, 
Singing  all  day,  '  The  fashion  of  this  world 
Passes  away  like  stubble  in  the  fire, 
But  God  remains  eternal  in  the  heavens.' 
Hither,  my  dove,  and  let  me  see  thy  face, 
Hither,  and  let  me  hear  thy  voice  once  more." 
Then  when  the  wild  dove  Boutimar  was  come, 
Smoothing  her  feathers  with  a  tender  hand, 
He  bade  her  tell  him  whether  it  were  best 
That  he,  her  lord  and  master,  Solomon, 
Should  drink  the  waters  of  immortal  youth. 
Whereunto  Boutimar,  the  Bird  of  Love, 
Whose  wisdom  was  proportioned  to  her  love  : 
"  How  should  a  simple  creature  of  the  sky, 
Tenant  of  lonely  places  far  from  men, 
In  rocky  clefts,  or  woods,  or  temple  roofs, 
Answer  the  Master  of  Intelligence  ? 
Yet  if  it  must  be  that  I  counsel  thee, 
Instruct  me  whether  this  bright  Cup  of  Life 
Be  for  thee  only,  or  for  all  mankind." 
And  he  :   "  It  hath  been  sent  to  me  alone. 
There  is  not  in  the  cup  another  drop, 
Nay,  not  so  much  as  the  least  bead  of  dew 
Left  at  high  noontide  in  the  lily's  leaves." 
1 20 


The  Judgment  of  Solomon. 

"  Prophet  of  God  !  "  the  wild  dove  answered  then, 
"  O,  how  couldst  thou  desire  to  live  alone, 
Then,  when  thy  trusty  friends  and  counsellors, 
Thy  wives,  thy  children,  all  who  love  thee,  all 
Whom  thou  dost   love,   are  numbered  with  the 

dead? 

For  these  must  surely  drink  the  cup  of  death, 
Though  thou  to-day  shouldst  drink  the  cup  of  life. 
Who  could  endure  eternal  youth,  O  King, 
When  the  world's  face  was  wrinkled  with  old  age, 
And  Death's  black  ringers,  reaching  everywhere, 
Had  closed  the  pale  eye  of  the  latest  star  ? 
When  all  thou  lovest  shall  have  passed  away 
Like  smoke  of  incense  in  that  holy  House 
Which  thou  hast  builded  in  Jerusalem  ; 
When,  poor,  dead  dust,  the  heart  that  beat  to  thine 
Shall  have  been  scattered  by  the  winds  of  heaven  ; 
When  eyes  which  were  the  loadstars  of  thy  fate 
Have  left  not  even  the  memory  of  their  light ; 
When  voices  which  were  music  in  thine  ears 
Are  mute  forever;  when  thy  life  shall  be 
The  sole  oasis  in  the  waste  of  death, 
Eternal  recognition  of  the  dead, 
Wilt  thou  then  care  to  live,  O  Solomon  ? 
Or,  rather,  wilt  thou  die  like  the  wild  dove 
Who  perishes  when  its  truant  mate  comes  not  ?  " 
For  answer  Solomon  restored  the  cup 
To  the  white  hand,  that  disappeared  again 
Deep  in  the  dense  concealment  of  the  cloud, 

121 


The  Legend  of  Frey  Bernardo. 

Which  in  a  moment  vanished  out  of  sight. 
Wisdom  returned  to  him,  and  with  it  tears, 
The  happy  tears  that  heal  the  sorrowing  heart, 
Submissive  to  the  ordinance  of  Heaven, 
Content  to  live  and  die  like  other  men. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  FREY  BERNARDO. 

THREE  hundred  years  ago,  or  more, 
In  Portugal,  at  Santarem, 
Between  whose  walls  the  Tagus  flows, 
Washing  with  lazy  waves  the  shore, 
A  stately  monastery  rose, 
Begirt  with  palaces,  for  there 
The  King  in  summer  did  repair 
With  his  light  loves,  of  course  for  prayer, 
For  their  confessors  came  with  them  ! 
A  busy  place  ;  for  in  the  streets, 
Where  one  to-day  the  muleteer  meets, 
Jogging  in  dust  with  jangling  bells, 
Rude  as  the  mountains  where  he  dwells, 
Grave  merchants  met,  who  fortunes  drew 
From  world-old  lands  discovered  new 
Beyond  the  dark  and  dangerous  seas 
By  followers  of  the  Genoese  ; 
These,  and  the  crews  their  ships  who  manned, 
Whose  cheeks  with  tropic  suns  were  tanned, 
122 


The  Legend  of  Frey  Bernardo. 

Who  rolled  their  costly  bales  ashore 
With  songs  like  ocean's  stormy  roar. 
A  holy  spot  was  Santarem, 
Famed  for  its  tall  cathedral  spires, 
That  caught  the  morning's  earliest  fires, 
And  for  the  chapels  under  them, 
Peopled  with  priests  and  sandalled  friars  ; 
Famed  for  its  monastery  more, 
For  where  'twas  builded  years  before 
The  Virgin  in  a  Vision  shone, 
A  lady  on  a  golden  throne, 
Who  in  her  arms  an  Infant  bore. 
To  mark  the  spot  they  builded  there. 
A  monastery,  large  and  fair, 
Whose  doors  were  open  night  and  day, 
Inviting  all  who  passed  that  way 
To  enter  freely,  and  to  stay, 
If  when  within  its  walls  they  stood, 
And  saw  its  pious  brotherhood, 
The  simple  lives  they  led  seemed  good  ; 
As  good  they  were  to  many  then, 
World-wearied,  meditative  men, 
Who,  till  their  spirits  found  release, 
Desired  forgetfulness  and  peace. 
One  of  this  sort  one  summer  day, 
Came  to  the  monastery  gate, 
Burdened  with  some  mysterious  fate 
That  made  him  prematurely  gray. 
He  may  have  been  a  banished  lord, 
123 


The  Legend  of  Frey  Bernardo, 

Bereft  of  his  ancestral  state  ; 
A  soldier  who  had  sheathed  his  sword, 
Repenting  deeds  of  blood  too  late. 
Whoe'er  he  was,  he  sought  the  prior, 
And  from  that  hour  became  a  friar  ; 
Adopted  all  the  brothers'  ways, 
And  patterned  after  theirs  his  days  ; 
Rose  when  they  rose  at  matin  bell, 
And  went  when  they  went  to  his  cell. 
Dead  to  the  world,  which  missed  him  not, 
But  which  he  clung  to  with  regret, 
He  struggled  sternly  to  forget 
Something  that  would  not  be  forgot — 
Struggled  in  silence  and  alone, 
Asking  no  aid  except  his  own 
The  spectre  of  his  soul  to  lay  ; 
For  he  was  never  known  to  pray, 
Either  at  morning's  dewy  prime, 
Or  Angelus,  or  vesper  chime, 
Though  at  the  service  of  the  dead 
He  closed  his  eyes,  and  bowed  his  head. 
He  lived  not  wholly  understood 
Among  that  simple  brotherhood. 
They  pitied  him  for  his  distress, 
That  never  sought  relief  in  prayer, 
But  loved  him  for  his  gentleness, 
And  for  the  comfort  he  was  there, 
For  many  a  weary  heart  and  head 
By  him  was  sweetly  comforted. 
124 


The  Legend  of  Frey  Bernardo. 

His  was  the  hand,  when  they  were  ill, 
And  tossing  on  the  bed  of  pain, 
That  gave  the  draught,  and  his  the  skill 
That  nursed  them  back  to  life  again. 
Such  Frey  Bernardo  was,  and  so 
The  years  with  him  did  come  and  go, 
Monotonous  and  dull  and  slow, 
Till  one  dark  day  the  pestilence 
Broke  out  in  Santarem,  from  whence, 
Smitten  with  fear,  the  people  fled, 
Leaving  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
Then  he  arose  in  righteous  ire, 
Like  one  who  has  been  calm  too  long, 
And  with  quick  steps,  and  eyes  of  fire, 
And  late-recovered  manhood  strong, 
Went  where  the  pestilence  was  worst, 
And  where  they  needed  most  his  care, 
Among  the  outcast  and  accursed, 
Where  death  was  in  the  tainted  air  : 
He  mitigated  mortal  pains 
In  cells  where  prisoners  lay  in  chains, 
And  in  the  close  dark  hold  of  ships 
Moistened  the  sailor's  fevered  lips  : 
Where  the  leech  feared  to  go  he  went, 
And  to  the  sick  and  dying  lent 
Patience  to  live  and  strength  to  die, 
And  faith  to  pale  priests  standing  by 
To  give  them  the  last  sacrament. 
All  man  could  do  he  did  to  save 
125 


The  Legend  of  Frey  Bernardo. 

His  stricken  fellows  from  the  grave, 
If  ever  doubtful,  certain  then 
That  God  was  served  by  serving  men. 
Before  the  pestilence  was  done 
The  shadows  of  departed  lives 
Filled  all  the  streets  of  Santarem  ; 
Husbands  lamented  for  their  wives, 
The  widowed  mother  for  her  son, 
And  little  children,  left  with  none 
To  comfort  or  to  care  for  them, 
Wept  for  their  parents  up  and  down 
That  dark,  depopulated  town. 
The  heart  of  Frey  Bernardo,  wrung 
At  sights  and  sounds  of  sorrow,  grew 
Womanly  o'er  these  waifs,  who  drew 
Tears  to  his  eyes,  they  were  so  young, 
And  so  unfriended  and  alone  ; 
And  two,  whose  mother  he  had  known 
In  better  days,  and  might  have  grown 
To  love,  if  fate  had  not  denied, 
And  who — poor  thing  ! — the  hour  she  died, 
Giving  to  each  the  parting  kiss, 
Had  placed  their  little  hands  in  his, 
He  fathered — he  could  do  no  less, 
He  pitied  so  their  helplessness. 
When  the  last  sufferer  was  at  rest, 
And  hushed  the  last,  sad  funeral  knell, 
He  clasped  the  children  to  his  breast 
And  bore  them  to  his  lonely  cell. 
126 


The  Legend  of  Frey  Bernardo. 

Whether  the  saintly  brotherhood, 
To  whom  their  cloistral  solitude 
And  still,  set  ways  alone  seemed  good, 
Would  let  them  stay  with  him,  or  he 
Would  have  to  shelter  them  elsewhere, 
Troubled  him  at  first,  but  needlessly, 
The  children  were  so  welcome  there. 
What  they  to  Frey  Bernardo  were 
He  could  not,  if  he  would,  have  told, 
Nor  how  from  his  soul's  sepulchre 
The  stone  had  suddenly  been  rolled, 
And  he  had  shuffled  off  at  last 
The  stifling  cerements  of  the  Past. 
But  so  it  was.     And  he  began 
To  put  his  old  dead  self  away, 
No  more  the  lone  and  loveless  man 
Whose  head  and  heart  alike  were  gray  : 
For  what  a  few  short  days  before 
Had  pity  been  for  their  distress, 
Had  deepened  into  something  more, 
And  now  was  anxious  tenderness. 
Sweet  was  the  light  in  their  young  faces, 
For  the  swift  hours  restored  their  bloom, 
Unconscious  of  their  childish  graces 
As  dewy  buds  in  secret  places 
Of  their  rathe  beauty  and  perfume. 
Perpetual  sunshine  filled  his  cell 
Since  he  had  fetched  the  children  there, 
And  sweet,  low  voices,  seldom  still ; 
127 


The  Legend  of  Frey  Bernardo. 

For  long  before  the  matin  bell 
Summoned  the  drowsy  monks  to  prayer, 
Before  the  earliest  of  the  birds 
Had  piped  its  first,  faint  morning  trill, 
They  wakened  him  with  loving  words. 
He  feared,  in  separating  them 
From  all  the  children  whom  they  knew 
In  their  past  life  at  Santarem, 
He  might,  perhaps,  have  done  them  wrong 
(And  may  have  done  so — who  can  tell  ?), 
There  was  so  little  he  could  do 
To  make  them  happy  in  his  cell, 
And  shorten  for  them  the  long  days. 
They  had  a  hundred  little  plays 
That  kept  the  days  from  being  long. 
Pablo,  the  youngest,  had  his  toys, 
Like  other  Lusitanian  boys — 
Rude  images  in  clay  and  wood, 
The  Patriarchs  here  and  Prophets  stood, 
With  fishermen  of  Galilee  ; 
And  there  the  followers  of  Mahound, 
Their  swarthy  brows  with  turbans  bound, 
And  red-cross  knights,  armed  cap-a-pie. 
If  the  girl,  Inez,  played  with  these, 
It  was  to  please  her  restless  brother, 
Who  she  had  promised  her  dead  mother 
Should  be  her  care  when  she  was  gone. 
Left  to  herself,  she  sits  alone, 
Her  small  hands  folded  on  her  knees, 
128 


The  Legend  of  Prey  Bernardo. 

Holding  her  lately-counted  beads, 
Listening  while  Frey  Bernardo  reads 
Black-letter  tomes  of  ancient  lore, 
Which  men,  grown  wiser,  read  no  more. 
Such  was  the  quiet  life  they  led 
In  the  seclusion  of  his  cell, 
Through  whose  barred  grate  the  sunlight  fell 
Till  the  hot  sun  was  overhead  ; 
Then,  wooed  by  softest  airs  and  sounds, 
They  wandered  out-of-doors  together, 
And  flitting  through  the  garden  grounds, 
Enjoyed  the  perfect  summer  weather. 
Beneath  the  shady  orchard  trees, 
Whose  laden  boughs  with  fruit  were  bent, 
Hand  locked  in  hand,  the  children  went, 
Their  light  locks  fluttering  in  the  breeze  ; 
The  birds  were  singing  far  and  near, 
But  they  were  hushed,  content  to  hear 
Such  heavenly  songs,  so  low,  so  clear  ! 
What  they  to  Frey  Bernardo  grew 
As  days  went  by,  and  their  sweet  ways 
Became  a  portion  of  the  days, 
He  rather  felt  at  first  than  knew. 
It  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 
This  grave,  good  man,  erewhile  so  stern, 
So  gracious  and  so  happy  now  ; 
And  how  his  loving  eyes  would  turn 
And  watch  the  children,  who  had  brought 
Their  brightness  to  his  heart  and  thought, 
129 


The  Legend  of  Frey  Bernardo. 

The  boy,  say,  sitting  on  his  knee, 

Where  song  or  story  he  demands, 

While  closer  still  his  sister  stands, 

Smoothing  the  furrows  from  his  brow  ! 

He  told  them  stories  such  as  he 

Was  told  in  childhood,  and  as  we 

Were  in  our  later  childhood  told — 

Old  stories  that  are  never  old, 

Despite  their  known  antiquity  ; 

For  though  mythologists  may  trace 

Through  all  the  lands  their  golden  way, 

Back  to  the  cradle  of  the  race, 

They  are  as  fresh  and  young  to-day 

As  when  they  first  were  said,  or  sung — 

Young  as  old  Homer's  song  is  young  ! 

When  these,  which  in  his  cell  apart 

Day  after  day  the  children  heard 

Till  their  light  hearts  no  more  were  stirred, 

For  now  they  knew  them  all  by  heart, 

Had  lost  their  charm,  he  told  them  others, 

As  mythical,  perhaps,  as  these, 

Culled  from  the  hagiologies, 

Of  holy  fathers,  sainted  mothers, 

Gone  to  their  long  and  heavenly  rest — 

Only  the  sweetest  and  the  best  ; 

Not  those  that  touched  on  martyrdom, 

For  soon  enough  their  tears  would  come 

For  their  own  sorrows.     "  They  shall  be 

Happy  while  they  are  with  me." 


The  Legend  of  Frey  Bernardo. 

Watching  the  pair  with  kindly  eyes, 
Which  tears  unshed  would  sometimes  dim, 
He  pondered  what  they  were  to  him, 
And  he  to  them — the  tender  ties 
That  bound  their  hearts  together  there, 
Their  confidence,  his  constant  care  ; 
And  pondering  so  one  day  his  mind, 
Which  till  that  moment  had  been  blind, 
Saw  what  he  had  so  long  denied, 
So  dark  had  been  his  soul  with  pride — 
The  sovereign  Fatherhood  above, 
The  certainty  of  Heavenly  Love  ! 
"Thou  art,  whatever  doth  befall, 
The  Maker  and  the  Lord  of  all ; 
And  as  these  children  cling  to  me, 
Hereafter  I  will  cling  to  Thee, 
Father  and  God."     He  said  no  more, 
But  wept  he  had  not  prayed  before. 

The  legend  ends  here.     But  I  know 
It  never  ended  here,  nor  so  ; 
For  given  the  man  whom  I  have  sung, 
Who  was  at  once  so  old  and  young, 
And  who  at  last  his  duties  learned 
To  God  and  Man — that  man  returned 
Back  to  the  world,  where  both  could  be 
Much  better  served  by  such  as  he, 
Who  had  begun  by  shunning  them, 
Than  in  his  cell  at  Santarem. 


THE  BRAHMAN'S  SON. 

THE  Brahman's  son  was  dead,  the  Brahman's  heart 

Stricken  as  if  a  thunder-bolt  had  fallen 

Out  of  a  clear  sky,  emptied  of  all  light, 

And  suddenly  black  with  midnight.     Nevermore 

Would  life  be  what  it  had  been,  for  the  hand 

That,    reaching   from  the  darkness,  plucked   the 

flower, 
Plucked  up  by  the  roots  the  stem  that  bore  the 

flower, 

And  dashed  it  down  to  die  the  self-same  death. 
It  seemed  so,  for  the  aged  Brahman  thrice 
Fainted  upon  the  bosom  of  his  son, 
And  each  time  longer  coming  back  to  life, 
Sank  deeper  deathward.     When  he  lay  as  dead 
They  took  the  body  from  his  lifeless  arms, 
And  having  washed  it  in  the  sacred  stream, 
And  wound  it  in  the  perfumed  linen  sheet, 
Laid  it  upon  a  bier  bestrewn  with  flowers, 
And  bore  it  softly  to  the  burial  place. 
When,  lying  there,  the  unhappy  father  woke 
He  knew  that  all  was  over,  for  the  tears, 
That  had  refused  to  flow,  began  to  fall, 
As  after  a  long  drought  the  summer  rain. 
Moreover  he  saw  the  elders  of  his  caste, 
Gray-beards  who  had  no  children,  rating  him 
132 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

Because  he  sorrowed  for  his  dear,  dead  child. 

Stunned  by  their  harsh  reproofs,  that  smote  his  ear, 

With  words  of  commination,  he  was  mute. 

Driven  hither  by  his  sorrow  for  his  son, 

And  thither  by  his  duty  to  the  gods, 

To  whom  all  sorrow,  save  what  they  inflict 

By  priestly  hands  for  gifts  withheld  from  them, 

Is  sin,  the  Brahman  sought  to  overcome 

The  dark  remembrance  of  his  dreadful  loss 

By  brooding  over  the  Beneficence 

Which  fills  the  world  with  light,  the  night  with 

stars, 

By  wisdom  which  the  wisest  of  his  caste 
Proclaimed  the  only  happiness  of  man, 
But  sought  in  vain,  for  all  day  long  he  saw 
The  face,  the  form,  the  presence  of  his  child. 
Turn  where  he  would  it  was  :  indoors  and  out  ; 
It  went  before  him  and  it  followed  him, 
Was  at  his  scanty  meals  and  at  his  prayers  ; 
Rose  when  he  rose  at  morning  from  his  sleep, 
And  in  the  troubled  watches  of  the  night 
Was  with  him  in  his  dreams — a  beauteous  shape. 
Haunted  by  memories  he  could  not  escape, 
And   grief  that   would   not  heal,    the    Brahman 

sighed : 

"  I  am  not — cannot  be — like  other  men, 
For  having  their  dead,  as  I  have,  they  forget, 
While  I  remember  ;  and  not  being  wise — 
No  more  than  I  am — they  contrive  to  find 

»33 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

(They  say  so)  wisdom,  which  I  cannot  find. 
I  will  seek  Yama,  therefore,  King  of  Death, 
And  pray  him  to  give  back  my  dear  dead  son." 
The  Brahman  straightway  rose,  and  clothed  him 
self 

In  the  long  vestments  of  his  priestly  caste, 
And  having  performed  the  ceremonial  rite, 
And  offered  up  the  sacrificial  flowers, 
Went  forth  alone  to  seek  the  King  of  Death. 
He  questioned  all  he  met  where  he  might  find 
That    lord    of   vanished    kingdoms.      Where   is 

Death  ? 

Some  stared  at  him  wide-eyed,  but  answered  not, 
Thinking   him   mad ;    some   answered,    mocking 

him  ; 

And  other  some  advised  him  to  return, 
Lest,    sooner    than    he   would,   he    should    find 

Death. 

Scarred  soldiers  riding  by  in  mail  cried  out 
That  Death  was  in  the  rush  of  battle-storms, 
Beneath  the  bursting  of  the  arrow-clouds, 
Amidst  the  lightning  of  the  crossing  swords, 
Before  the  ranks  of  fighting  elephants. 
And  swarthy  sailors,  swaggering  in  their  cups, 
Boisterous  as  stormy  sea-winds,  shouted,  "  Death 
Is  in  the  long  waves  roaring  on  the  reefs, 
And  in  the  water-spouts  of  the  mid-sea." 
And  dancing  girls,  whose  feet,  like  those  of  Spring, 
Twinkled  to  music,  and  whose  floating  arms 
'34 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

Circled  about  their  brows  like  flights  of  doves, 
Sang,  in  the  pauses  of  their  amorous  hymn, 
"  Not  in  the  cold,  dark  caverns  of  the  sea 
Seek  Death,  nor  in  the  dreadful  battle-field, 
But  rather  in  our  arms  and  on  our  lips, 
Strained  to  our  hearts  in  kisses  :  so  to  die — 
No  life  is  half  so  sweet  as  such  a  death." 
The  rippling  laughter  of  the  merry  girls 
Was  like  the  chime  of  bells  on  temple  eaves 
When  winds  of  summer  lip  their  silver  tongues. 
He  wandered  by  the  banks  of  many  streams, 
And  in  the  shade  of  many  city  walls, 
Until  he  came  to  the  great  wilderness 
Below  the  holy  Mountains  of  the  East. 
Dangerous  the  way  was,  for  in  forest  paths 
Were  hooded  serpents,  pendent  from  the  boughs, 
With   flickering,  forked  tongues  ;  and,  couchant 

near, 

Leopards,  the  anger  of  whose  cruel  eyes 
Flamed  ominously  through  the  jungle  grass  ; 
And,  still  more  deadly,  the  enormous  boa, 
Whose    tortuous    passage    through    the   furrowed 

weeds 

Was  like  a  boat's  wake  on  the  heaving  sea. 
Fearless  he  passed  them  :  what  had  he  to  fear 
From  deaths  like  these  who  sought  the  King  of 

Death  ? 

At  length  he  reached  the  harmless  hermitage 
Where  dwelt  the  oldest  Brahmans — holy  men, 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

Reverend  in  their  white  hairs  and  drifts  of  beard. 
The  shadows  of  the  ancient  rocks  and  trees 
Lengthened  and   shortened  with  the   slow-paced 

hours, 

And  circled  with  the  circling  of  the  sun  ; 
All,  save  the  shadow  of  the  sacred  trees 
Wherein  they  sat  and  mused,  which  circled  not, 
Steadfast  as  earth  was  in  the  shifting  light. 
They  sat  in  silence,  staring  at  the  sun, 
Not  blinded  by  it,  and  the  birds  of  heaven, 
Seeing  they  stirred  not,  nestled  in  their  beards. 
Awed  by  the  stern  composure  of  their  looks, 
The  Brahman  stopped,  like  one  who  in  a  dream 
Fears  to  go  on,  yet  feels  he  must  go  on. 
Then,  bowing  lowly  to  these  holy  men, 
He  said  :     "  O  Brahmans  !     Fathers  of  the  caste, 
As  Brahma  is  the  Father  of  the  Gods, 
Supreme  in  wisdom  as  the  Gods  are,  hear, 
And,  hearing,  help  a  most  unhappy  man 
Who,  worn  with  fruitless  wanderings  to  and  fro 
In  search  of  Yama,  rajah  of  the  dead, 
Beseeches  ye  to  tell  him  where  he  is  : 
Direct  him,  Fathers,  to  the  King  of  Death." 
He  spake,  and  waiting  for  their  answer,  heard 
The  humming  of  innumerable  bees, 
The  inarticulate  whisper  of  the  leaves, 
The  rivers  chanting  their  eternal  song, 
And  in  the  distant  woods  the  roar  of  beasts. 
But  now  the  Brahmans  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear, 

13$ 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

Like  those  whom  voices  overtake  in  sleep, 
And,  who,  persuaded  by  the  voices,  wake, 
Not  knowing  where  they  are,  or  who  they  are, 
Pausing  until  their  souls  come  back  to  them. 
"What   man  art  thou  ?     And  wherefore  seekest 

thou 

Yama,  who  comes  unsought  to  every  man  ?  " 
Few  words  sufficed  to  tell  them  what  he  was  : 
A  Brahman  (as  they  saw),  but  one  to  whom 
The  wisdom  of  his  caste  had  not  been  given, 
Though  he  had  sought  it  long,  with  all  his  mind — 
Sought  it   with   fasts  and  prayers  for  threescore 

years. 

Seeing  (he  said)  that  he  was  growing  old, 
And  was  not  growing  wise — a  simple  man 
Who  never  could  be  wiser  than  he  was — 
He  took  a  wife,  as  was  his  duty  then, 
To  bear  him  holy  children  ;  she  bare  one, 
A  son,  who  was  the  comfort  of  his  age. 
Him  did  he  dedicate  to  holiness, 
Instilling  at  all  hours  in  his  young  life 
The  love  of  wisdom,  teaching  all  he  knew, 
Till,  no  more  teaching,  he  was  taught  himself, 
Fathered  in  knowledge  by  his  wiser  child. 
"  But  he  was  taken  from  me  in  his  bloom, 
Taken  with  the  dawn  of  manhood  on  his  lip, 
Taken  without  warning,  leaving  me  alone  ! 
Wherefore,  I  pray  ye,  Fathers,  holy  men, 
Who,  knowing  all  things,  know  where  Yama  dwells, 

137 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

Tell  me  where  I  may  find  the  King  of  Death, 
That  I  may  pray  him  to  give  back  my  son." 
They  answered  him  together,  with  one  voice, 
As  when  the  sounds  of  many  swollen  streams 
Become  one  sound  :   "  There  is  no  giving  back  ; 
Death   takes   his   own,    and   keeps   it ;  takes   all 

things. 

The  stars  die  in  their  courses,  like  the  dew, 
That  shines,  and  is  not  ;  the  containing  heavens 
Wither  like  leaves  in  autumn  ;  all  the  worlds, 
And  all  the  creatures  that  inhabit  them, 
Vanish  like  smoke  of  incense — which  they  are, 
From  the  beginning  offered  up  to  Death. 
Thou  canst  not  visit  Yama's  dread  abode, 
For  no  man  goes  that  way  with  mortal  feet. 
But  if  thy  faith  be  sure,  thy  courage  high, 
Thou  mayst  do  one  thing.     Many  a  league  from 

here, 

Hundreds  of  leagues  toward  the  setting  sun, 
There  is  a  valley  ;  in  the  midst  of  it 
There  stands  a  city,  wherein  dwells  no  man, 
But  the  Gods  only,  when  their  pleasure  is 
To  clothe  themselves  in  shape,  and  live  on  earth. 
There,  when  the  eighth  day  of  the  month  is  come, 
Comes  Yama,  from  the  dark  realms  of  the  dead, 
To  share  the  bright  life  of  his  brother  Gods  : 
Go  there,  and  there  find  Yama.     Now  depart  : 
We  have  heard  and  answered   thy  complaining 

words, 

138 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

And  earned  the  right  to  meditate  again." 
Thus  they,  and  silence  followed,  as  when  day 
Dies  in  the  purple  west  the  birds  fly  home, 
Forgetful  of  the  songs  they  sang  at  dawn  ; 
The  leaves  are  hushed,  the  winds  are  laid,  and 

night 

Shuts  suddenly,  darkly  in  the  starless  sky. 
Through   sunlight,    moonlight,    starlight,    like    a 

cloud, 

Driven  by  the  strong  wings  of  a  steady  wind 
Whose  speed  is  in  his  steps,  the  Brahman  went 
Hundreds  of  leagues  toward  the  setting  sun  : 
At  last  he  reached  the  end  of  the  world,  and  saw 
The  valley  whereof  the  Fathers  had  foretold, 
Immeasurable,  and  in  the  midst  of  it 
The  great  and  glorious  City  of  the  Gods. 
A  City  builded  in  the  summer  clouds 
By  masonry  of  winds,  fantastic,  strange  ; 
Tier  over  tier,  in  mountain  terraces, 
Sheer  from  the  hollows  of  that  happy  vale, 
It  rose  resplendent  ;  leagues  of  palaces, 
The  sudden  opening  of  whose  doors  disclosed 
The  light  of  thrones  within ;  what  temples  seemed , 
Interminable  columns,  crowned  with  domes  ; 
Towers,  wall-surrounded,  high,  mysterious; 
Arches,  wherethrough  one  saw  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  dazzling  fountains  in  perpetual  bloom  ; 
Towers,  temples,  palaces,  and  over  all 
The  great  gate  of  the  Palace  of  the  Gods. 

'39 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

Beside  the  fiery  pillars  of  this  gate, 
With  folded  wings,  two  watchful  Spirits  stood, 
Guarding  the  entrance  lest  some  evil  thing 
Should  unperceived  steal  in  ;  who,  when  they  saw 
The  Brahman  coming  where  his  prayers  had  come 
So  long  before  him — for  the  prayers  of  men 
Are  ladders  mounting  from  the  earth  to  heaven — 
They  knew  his  life  had  been  acceptable 
To  the  high  gods  ;  and  though  he  was  the  first 
Who,  without  dying,  ever  came  that  way, 
They  stayed  him  not,  such  fearlessness  of  death 
Was  in  his  eyes,  such  certainty  of  life. 
As  when  at  set  of  sun  on  summer  eves 
The  heavens  are  opened,  and  a  single  cloud, 
Rising  above  the  threshold  of  the  west, 
Pauses  a  moment,  then  is  lost  in  light, 
So  paused  the  Brahman,  till  the  golden  gate 
Unfolding  slowly  with  melodious  song — 
If  song  it  was,  and  not  the  spiritual  touch 
Of  unseen  hands  on  unknown  instruments 
That  welcomed  him — admitted  him  beyond, 
There,  where  the  Gods  were  in  divine  repose. 
Not  as  where  sculptured  in  colossal  forms, 
With  fourfold  faces,  and  with  sceptred  hands, 
They   sit   crossed-legged,  among  their   worship 
pers, 

In  tall  pagodas,  or  in  temple-caves 
Quarried  in  mountains,  ancient  as  themselves, 
But  Presences  wherein  the  Power  they  were 
140 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

Was  felt,  not  seen  :  a  sense  of  awfulness 
Fell  on  the  Brahman's  soul,  and  closed  his  lips, 
That  would  have  uttered  supplicating  cries 
To  have  his  son  restored,  but  dared  not  there. 
From  out  the  silence  of  that  sacred  Place — 
But  whether  nigh  at  hand  or  far  away, 
From  the  great  roof  of  brightness  overhead 
Or  from  the  cavernous  darkness  in  whose  depths 
The  firm  foundation  of  that  world  was  set 
From  the  beginning,  who  may  say  ? — there  came, 
Or  seemed  to  come,  a  low  mysterious  Voice  : 
"  Thy  prayers  are  answered.     All  the  Gods  can  do 
For  man  is  done  when  they  have  heard  his  pray 
ers 

And  answered  them  ;  the  consequence  of  prayer, 
Or  good,  or  evil,  must  be  borne  by  man  : 
The  Gods  are  powerless  to  undo  their  work. 
Thy  son  is  in  the  Garden  of  the  East. 
Go  to  him  ;  I  permit  it."     And  he  went, 
Following  he  knew  not  how  that  heavenly  Voice, 
Sweeter  than  music  on  the  sea  at  night, 
But  sadder  than  the  moaning  of  the  sea 
When,  pitying,  it  gives  back  the  dead — too  late! 
Lovelier  than  all  the  gardens  of  the  earth 
It  was — a  region  of  eternal  bloom  : 
Of  flowers  that,  budding  or  full  blown,  were  fresh 
With   lucent   dews,    whose  bright   leaves    faded 

not, 

Of  fruits  that,  ripening  on  the  laden  boughs, 
141 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

Dropped  not,  but  hung  all  golden  in  the  sun, 
If  sun  it  was  whose  mellow  light  was  there — 
An  everlasting  day  !  Like  one  in  dreams, 
Who  bears  about  with  him  in  unknown  worlds 
Remembrance  of  the  only  world  he  knows, 
The  unhappy  Brahman  wandered  up  and  down, 
Through  groves  of  summer  boscage  blithe  with 

birds, 

And  meadow  hollows  murmurous  with  bees  ; 
Past  sheets  of  still,  clear  water,  islanded 
With  lily-pods — a  Lotus  Paradise, 
And  shafts  of  fountains  flashing  as  they  rose 
In  rainbow  mists  ;  past  all,  and  saw  them — 
Saw  nothing  but  his  poor  forsaken  home 
Beside  the  Ganges,  and  the  mound  of  earth 
That  covered  his  dead  boy,  until,  at  last 
The  film  passed  from  him,  and  he  saw  the  boy, 
More  beauteous  than  on  earth,  though  beauteous 

there, 

Divinely  fair — the  same,  but  not  the  same. 
Trembling,  with  outstretched  hands,  and  a  great 

cry, 

He  ran  to  him,  and  clasped  him  in  his  arms. 
"  Oh,  my  sweet  boy  !    Oh,  my  beloved  first-born  ! 
Hast  thou  forgot  me,  thy  father  ?  me, 
Whose  loving  heart  was  broken  at  thy  death  ? " 
"  I  know  thee  not,"  the  soul  of  the  dead  child 
Replied,  escaping  from  his  arms  like  mist. 
"  My  son  !  my  son  !  hast  thou  indeed  forgot 
142 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

Thy  father,  who  loved  thee  more  than  his  own 

life? 

Who  taught  thy  baby  lips  the  words  of  prayer — 
Deliverance  from  the  power  of  Evil  Ones, 
And  thanks  for  the  protection  of  the  Gods  ? 
Hast  thou  forgot  thy  mother,  who,  like  me, 
Weeps,  but  alone,  seeing  that  I  am  gone 
From  her  on  this  long  journey  after  thee  ? 
O  look  at  me  !  O  come  to  me  again ! 
And  look  at  me,  and  thou  wilt  know  me  !  "     Still 
The  child  came  not,  but  said  :   "I  know  thee  not  : 
Thou  art  a  stranger  to  me.     All  I  know 
Is — that  thou  art  a  mortal,  and  not  wise, 
For  wert  thou  wise,  as  we  are,  thou  wouldst  know 
That  '  father,'  '  mother,'  here  are  foolish  names, 
Belonging  to  conditions  that  are  past. 
Depart,  unhappy  one  !  I  know  thee  not. 
Thou  art  no  more  to  me  than  to  the  moon 
The  wind  that  drives  the  clouds  across  her  face, 
The  torch  gone  out  at  noonday.     Get  thee  hence  ; 
It  profits  not  to  bring  thy  sorrow  here." 
The  child,  the  garden — all  things  disappeared  ; 
All  save  the  Brahman,  and  the  tears  he  shed  : 
Not  long  ;  for  lifting  up  his  eyes,  he  saw 
Buddha  before  him,  seated  on  his  throne, 
Godlike  and  human,  merciful  and  wise, 
With  eyes  that  read  the  secrets  of  all  hearts. 
Pitying  the  father  who  had  lost  his  child, 
He  stooped  and  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart, 

H3 


The  Brahman's  Son. 

And  healing  his  long  heart-ache,  gave  him  peace. 
"  Brahman  !  thou  hast  been  punished  grievously 
For  understanding  neither  life  nor  death  ; 
For  knowing  not  the  spirits  of  the  dead 
Receive  new  bodies  after  they  are  dead, 
So  that  their  late-left  tenements  of  clay 
Are  no  more  to  them  than  a  wayside  inn 
To  which  as  guests  they  never  go  again. 
The  ties  of  kindred — father,  mother,  child — 
That  seem  to  bind  the  world  with  bands  of  steel, 
Are    frailer    when    death    comes    than    spiders' 

threads  ; 

For  death  comes  like  a  torrent  from  the  hills, 
Which  swollen  with  ruin  sweeps  away  all  love, 
And  all  love  clings  to  with  its  dying  hold. 
Thy  first,  last  duty,  Brahman,  is  to  live, 
True  to  thyself  and  others  ;  swerving  not 
From  what  the  voice  within  pronounces  good. 
Who   lives   well,    dies    well."     So    the   Brahman 

found, 

For  he  returned  to  earth,  and  wept  no  more  ; 
But  taking  up  the  burden  of  his  life, 
He  lived  it  out,  and  earned  a  quiet  grave  ; 
The  thought  of  which,  as  he  drew  near  to  it, 
Was  a  prophetic  promise  of  his  rest, 
And  of  his  bright  Companion  gone  before, 
Of  whom  his  last  words  were — He  knows  me  now  ! 


144 


THE   LION'S   CUB. 

ONCE  on  a  time  there  was  an  Indian  King, 
Dushmanta,  who  being  young,  and  quick  to  love, 
Youth's   strength,  or   weakness,   wedded   in  hot 

haste 

A  Brahman's  daughter,  in  a  holy  grove, 
Whereof  she  was  the  priestess.     She  was  fair 
As  the  white  Ganges  blossom  whose  pure  leaves 
Are   woven   of  moonbeams  ;    fair  she   was,  and 

sweet 

As  the  first  tender  jasmin  whose  rare  scent 
Persuades  the  distant  bee  to  seek  it  out, 
And  hoard  its  honey  in  his  hidden  hive, 
But  shy  withal  as  the  young  antelope, 
That  in  the  sacred  precincts  of  this  wood 
Fled  from  all  steps,  save  only  those  that  fell 
From  her  light  feet.     Such  was  Sacontala, 
To  whom  the  great  Dushmanta,  King  of  Ind, 
Smitten  with  passion,  did  espouse  himself. 
This  is  the  prologue  of  a  tragedy, 
Which  the   strong   hand  that   wrote   a  Winter's 

Tale 

Might  well  have  written,  called  The  Fatal  Ring. 
The  product  of  a  Sanskrit  poet's  pen, 
It  turns  upon  the  short-lived  happiness 
Of  this  mismated  pair,  who  might  have  known, 


The  Lion's  Cub. 

At  least,  the  man,  as  elder,  should  have  known, 

That,  unless  wife  and  husband  be  at  one, 

Of  the  same  station,  whether  high  or  low, 

Of  the  same  race,  alike  in  heart  and  brain, 

The  ring  of  marriage  is  a  fatal  ring. 

So  to  Dushmanta  and  Sacontala 

It  proved  before  the  crescent  of  the  moon 

Thrice   rounding   reached  the  full ;  above   their 

couch 

It  rose,  and  shone,  and  set,  till  one  dark  night 
Dushmanta  came  not ;  when  it  rose  again 
It  shone  upon  Sacontala  alone, 
Deserted  wife,  who  wet  her  couch  with  tears. 
Wherein  she  failed  to  hold  the  man  she  loved 
She  knew  not.     Neither  man  nor  woman  knows 
Why  love,  which  comes  and  goes  at  its  own  will, 
Once  gone,  like  his,  refuses  to  return. 
She  may  have  been  too  humble,  he  too  proud  ; 
For  there  is  that  in  kings  which  makes  them  set 
A  greater  value  on  the  things  they  give 
Than  on  the  richer  treasure  they  receive. 

At  length  her  father,  who  was  old  and  wise, 
Seeing  Dushmanta  never  sent  for  her, 
Nor  ever  came  to  their  still  hermitage, 
Determined,  after  meditating  long, 
To  send  her  to  her  lord,  which  was  not  wise  ; 
But  she,  true  woman  and  true  wife  to  him, 
Though  by  his  strange  desertion  hurt  to  death, 
146 


The  Lion's  Cub. 

Proud  where  she  was  once  humble,  liked  it  not, 
And,  following  her  own  counsel,  which  was  wise, 
Would   not  have   sought,  nor   seen  him   till  the 

hour 

When  he,  unkind  no  longer,  should  return, 
And  say,  "  Forgive  me,  dear  Sacontala." 
Yet  being  obedient,  as  daughters  were 
In  that  old  time  and  that  far  land,  she  went 
Whither  her  father  sent  her,  loth  to  leave 
Her  half-sheathed  lilies,  and  her  unseen  bird, 
And  the  coy  antelope,  that,  bolder  grown, 
Would    have   gone   with  her   out   of  that   close 

shade, 
Into  the  great,  bright,  noisy,  unknown  world. 

Veiled,  as  became  a  young  and  modest  bride, 

But  clad  in  a  rich  mantle,  such  as  Spring 

Wears  when  in  mid-May  blooms  men  stop  and 

say> 

"  Spring  will  be  Summer  soon,"  Sacontala, 
By  two  grave  Brahmans  led,  her  father's  sons, 
Began  her  journey,   which,   through    groves   of 

palms 

That  fringed  the  roadway,  and  through   millet- 
fields 

Where  busy  husbandmen  were  sowing  seed, 
Past  bamboo  huts  where  children  were  at  play, 
Stone  temples,  where  old  priests  were  chanting 
hymns, 

147 


The  Lion's  Cub. 

Pouring  libations  to  the  bounteous  gods, 

Led  to  the  stately  city  of  her  lords 

Which,  in  its  golden  splendor  seen  afar, 

Like  the  beclouded  but  iiprising  sun, 

Reaching,  they  enter  by  the  eastern  gate. 

A  glorious  city,  into  whose  broad  streets 

They  passed,  Sacontala  with  timid  steps  ; 

For,  faint  with  travel  and  a  heavy  heart, 

Bearing  a  secret  burden  in  her  breast, 

She  faltered  ;  but  her  Brahman  guards  were  firm, 

Not  comprehending  why  she  suffered  so, 

Austere  as  in  the  rustic  solitude, 

Where,  meditating  on  morality, 

Their  studious  but  unfruitful  years  were  spent. 

So  into  and  along  the  spacious  streets 

Swarming  all  day  with  jostling  life  they  went, 

Past  booths    and    markets    gay  with   fruit   and 

flowers, 

The  shops  where  native  workmen  wrought  in  gold, 
Setting  of  jewels,  diamonds,  Ormuz  pearls, 
Bazars  where    foreign    merchants    showed   their 

stuffs, 

Silks,  satins,  woven  in  barbaric  looms, 
The  lordly  pleasure -houses  of  great  lords, 
The  palaces  of  princes,  on,  and  on, 
Till,  last,  they  gained  the  palace  of  the  king. 
Silently  entering  through  more  silent  guards, 
Armed  with  tall  bows,  tough  shields,  and  horrent 

spears, 

148 


The  Lion's  Cub. 

Through    long-arched    chambers,  where    priests 

murmured  prayers, 

To  where,  like  Brahma  on  his  judgment-seat, 
Whither  all  might  come  at  all  times,  and  demand 
Justice,  or  mercy,  boons  of  life  and  death, 
Surrounded  with  his  glory,  sate  the  king. 

What  passed  between  Dtishmanta  sitting  there, 

And  his  forsaken  queen,  Sacontala, 

Our  Sanskrit  poet  in  his  tragedy 

Paints  with  pathetic  force  in  simple  words, 

Which  my  best  English  fails  to  reproduce, 

So  poor  my  craft  beside  his  perfect  art. 

An  undercurrent  of  enchantment  runs 

Through  his  sweet  scenes,  wherein  Sacontala, 

While  dipping  water  from  a  woodland  stream 

To   quench   her    thirst,    cup-wise,    in   her   white 

hands, 

Dropped  her  betrothal  ring,  whereby  she  lost, 
Her  husband's  love — but  that  was  lost  before. 
For,  disappointed  from  the  first,  he  found 
The  ring  of  marriage  was  a  fatal  ring. 

They  met,  and  parted,  not  as  king  and  queen, 
But  rather  as  lesser  people  meet  and  part, 
Who,  when  estranged,  as  they  were,  separate, 
Each  picking  up  the  broken  thread  of  life  ; 
Women,  their  daily,  narrow  household  tasks, 
And  men  the  broader  duties  of  mankind. 

149 


The  Lion's  Cub. 

Like  one  who,  gliding  in  a  soft,  sweet  sleep, 
Past  shores  of  summer  rest  he  wots  not  of, 
Reaches  the  happy  world  of  heavenly  dreams, 
Whose  only  lord  is  love — to  find  love  dead, 
With  no  remembrance  of  his  perished  power, 
Not  even  the  ashes  in  his  broken  urn — 
Such  was  Dushmanta's  desolated  heart. 
Oh,  what  the  soul  of  poor  Sacontala  ? 

Along  the  circuit  of  seven  troubled  years, 
Wherethrough,  like  a  fading  Spring  in  silver  mist, 
There  wavers  the  shadowy  boscage  of  a  wood, 
Where  mother-parrots  in  the  pendulous  nests 
Feed  their  unfledged  but  ever  clamorous  young, 
And  where  the  vision  of  a  woman  is, 
Clad  in  a  roseate  robe  of  woven  bark, 
Morning  in    her  wan   cheeks,   and    more    than 

night 

In  the  dark  splendor  of  her  drooping  eyes, — 
This  past,  we  are  in  a  forest,  where  we  see 
A  child,  but  of  no  childly  countenance, 
Whom  two  pale  women  struggle  to  detain, 
In  vain,  so  hard  his  clutch  upon  their  hands, 
Playful,  but  powerful,  as  the  lion's  whelp, 
Which,  with  torn  mane,  he  haled  a  moment  since 
From  the  half-suckled  nipple  of  a  lioness. 
"  Open  your  jaws,  that  I  may  count  your  teeth, 
Cowardly  cub  !  "  To  whom  one  woman  said  : 
"  Intractable  child,  why  dost  thou  so  torment 


The  Lion's  Cub. 

The  wild,  young  creatures  of  this  hallowed  spot, 

As  dear  to  us  as  Camadeva's  doves. 

Well  have  the  Brahmans  called  you  the  all-tamer." 

Here,  like  a  presence  stealing  through  the  place, 
The  shadow  of  a  ruler,  unto  whom 
Life  had  grown  lamentable  since  he  lost — 
What  precious  treasure  had  this  monarch  lost  ? 
His  dreams  were  of  an  unknown  hermitage, 
Where  wandered  an  unknown  woman,  whom  the 

bees 

Honored  like  the  honey  in  the  lotus  flower  ; 
Here  elephants  that  trampled  trees,  and  there 
Wild  buffaloes  wallowing  in  shallow  pools  ; 
A  penitential  voice  that  would  be  heard  ; 
Kinghood  abandoned,  like  the  winter  wind  ; 
The  supplicating  trust  that  weighs  down  kings, 
Who  fail  to  rightly  govern  the  sea-girt  world, 
On  whom  the  sole  support  of  all  mankind 
Rests  like  the  largest  of  the  Himalayas. 
Then  spoke  Dushmanta  :   "  Why  is  my  fond  heart 
So  drawn  to  him  ?     He  cannot  be  my  son, 
For  I  am  childless,  and  my  race  is  dead." 

"  The  lioness  will  rend  you  like  a  reed, 

If  you  do  not  let  loose  her  tawny  whelp." 

"  I  fear  her  not."     Whereat  he  bit  his  lip, 

And  glared  defiance  from  his  ireful  eyes. 

"  A  valorous  child  !  "  the  brave  Dushmanta  said  : 


The  Lion's  Cub. 

"Dear  boy,   release    that  royal  prince."     "Not 

so." 

Seizing  the  loose  nape  of  the  little  lion, 
The  lad  rose  suddenly  on  his  sturdy  feet, 
And  cuffed  the  whimpering  creature,  right  and 

left. 

"  There  are  marks  of  empire  in  his  baby  palms, 
And  the  round  of  sovranty  is  on  his  brow." 
More  had  been  said,  had  not  the  antelope 
That  browsed  near  by,  in  terror  snapped  its  chain, 
Welded  of  silver  linked  with  costly  stones, 
And  flown  afar  to  lone  Sacontala, 
Its  gentle  mistress,  gentler  than  itself. 

Meantime,  Dushmanta  bent  his  stoutest  bow, 
Stringed  with  its  arrowy  lightnings,  self-restrained, 
Because  the  hour  appointed  was  not  come. 
"  Great  love  I  bear  this  uncontrollable  child 
Who  should  be  mine,  but  is  not !  Great  would  be 
His  inarticulate  prattle  and  small  laugh." 
"  Command  him  to  set  free  the  lion's  cub." 
"  Why  wilt  thou,  boy,  dishonor  thus  thy  sire  ? 
Only  the  hooded  snake  with  forked  tongue 
Infests  the  boughs  of  the  odorous  sandal-tree." 
Whereat  Dushmanta  in  his  mighty  grip 
Caught  the  more  mighty  grasp  of  the  boy's  hand. 
"  Marvel  of  marvels  !  "  "  Why  this  outcry,  pray  ? " 
"  Behold  the  curious  likeness  of  this  child 
To  thy  most  royal  self,  which  not  before 
152 


The  Lion's  Cub. 

Hath  bloomed  with  grace  upon  him."     Here  the 

king 

Stooped  his  tall  height,  uplifting  to  his  breast 
The  boy,  and  questioned  him  about  his  kin. 

But  now  the  fawn,  no  more  alarmed,  but  brave 
As  the  freed  whelp,  brought  on  Sacontala. 
Wondering  to  find  her  husband  standing  there, 
As  in  her  joyous  vision  long  ago, 
And  kneeling  :   "  Forgive  me,  dear  Sacontala, 
Wronged  as  thou  wert,  and  art,  but  not  again, 
For  my  right  mind  came  back  with  the  lost  ring, 
Found " — But  we    know    how   all    lost  rings   are 

found, 

From  that  of  Gyges  to  the  richer  one 
The  Phrygian  monarch  dropped  among  the  reeds, 
That  whispered  his  long  secrets  to  the  wind. 
This  late-recovered  circlet  was  not  now 
An  ominous  but  ever-fortunate  ring, 
So  strong  the  triple  love  that  bound  the  hearts 
Of  glad  Sacontala  and  great  Dushmanta, 
And  that  young  conqueror  of  the  lion's  cub. 


THE  END. 


'53 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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